


Swinging on a Star {'Cause I kind of love you. A lot.}

by rixie_rhee



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Shameless Smut, Smut, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 18:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 85,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9836780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: “Any obligations I have--” he sighs heavily, interrupting himself. “I’ll give you whatever I can, Clarissa, for however long I can. That’s as much as I can give you.”What I say comes out as barely more than a whisper, “Then I’m yours, for as long as you want me, Lewis.”“That’ll be a long goddamn time, then.”His kisses are deep and bruising. The kind of kisses that leave you feeling like you’ve been claimed. And, oh, I have been. His name is written all over my skin, through my body, etched into my organs and bones.This is just a very long, smutty love story.





	1. "You" is my Answer

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I like Winnix as much as the next girl, but I wanted a story about Lew and a girl, and i couldn't find one, so I wrote it myself. What started off as a--very--dirty little story grew and now it's like a short book. I've spent too much time on it not to share it with someone, so here we are.
> 
> The timeline gets kind of wonky, and I know I'm playing with history to suit my purposes, so you'll just have to suspend belief and bear with me
> 
> The title comes from a Bing Crosby song from the movie "Going My Way"
> 
> Thank you to anyone who reads my little story, and if you do read it, I hope you have as much fun reading as I did writing.
> 
> And of course, disclaimer, I own no characters except for the ones that I made up out of my own little head, and I mean no disrespect to anyone, because those men deserve nothing but respect and gratitude.

We’re standing in an alleyway, off some little street in some little English village. We’d been walking together companionably, on our way to get a little treat, chocolate maybe. It’s almost dusk, and its relatively quiet right in this little alley, this shortcut. There’s no one else here. We were walking, teasing a little back and forth, this soldier and this girl, this officer and this nurse. See, Lewis Nixon and I have known each other a while, and we seem to end up in the same places. Since the first time I ever saw him, his dark hair and eyes have given me butterflies, not to mention his smirk and his straight white teeth, and if I’m being perfectly honest, his cute backside, too.

I never thought that would happen again. My husband died, here in England. He was a good man, and I loved him. I didn’t have anyone else, really, and we didn’t have any children, so when he came over here, I did, too, to help. He died, I stayed. Johnny. I loved him so much. So, I worked and worked, tried to be brave and do my part while feeling like my heart had been buried with my husband. I loved him, he adored me, and I was devastated. It got a little better with time. I had friends, and I was constantly busy, and it did make me feel better thinking that I could ease someone else’s pain even if just a little, all these sick and hurt and dying men that I care for.

Then, one night, I was paying for my dinner, and I met Lew. He was standing at the counter with his drink, and I suppose he turned around because he heard a girl’s voice beside him. There weren’t very many other women in that little café. He turned and smiled and I saw his eyes, rich like dark chocolate, and his one-sided smile. Butterflies, for the first time since the last time that Johnny walked away from me. We became a friends, in a way. I mean, he would bring me little things, check on me, tease me and make me laugh, and sometimes, if it was bad, he’d put an arm around me, or he’d lean his head on my chest and I’d brush the hair back from his forehead and neither of us would say a word. And he would flirt, but he flirts with everyone, it’s just how he is.

Lew likes women and they like him, and I’m still a good girl from the Midwest, so that’s all it ever was. Of course, I’d had a husband and I’d loved him enthusiastically, but we were married, so it was all right. Even if Johnny did laugh a little and tell me that maybe I liked it a little _too_ much to be a proper young lady. And being that I’m not perfect, there’ve been a very few assignations since I lost him, but that was more about seeking comfort than any kind of gratification, on my part anyway.

It was a long time before I could even admit to myself that I was interested in Lew, that I was attracted to him. I kept it to myself. There’s no point. I mean, I know he cares about me but he’s married, even if it seems as if he and his wife don’t even like each other, and he’s got his girls besides. And for all Johnny’s teasing, I _am_ a good girl. The first time I slept with anyone was my wedding night. I was told it was something that nice girls, good girls let their husbands do. Wasn’t it a surprise to find out that I wanted him, too? I’d felt guilty at first, when I started thinking about Lew, when my heart would beat faster at the sight of him, when I knew that I didn’t look at him as a friend or brother, and when I started to wonder what it would feel like to kiss him, or have his hands on me, or have him inside of me, what it would be like if he loved me, because if I was honest I was already a little in love with him, with Lew. It’s different now though, those rules from home and peacetime don’t apply here and now. Any one of us could be gone any day. How can it be wrong to love someone, to carve out a little sweetness in the middle of hell? But like I said, there’s no point. All these thoughts and feelings about Lew are my one-sided little secret that I keep all to myself.

But anyway, we were walking together on a rare free afternoon in a safe place, to go get candy. “What are you going to get,” he asks, winking at me and playing at sounding lecherous. “What do you want, Rissa?” 

And because I was wool-gathering, because I’m so _stupid_ , the one damn word that comes out of my mouth is “You.” We both stop walking and I clap my hand to my mouth. my cheeks are burning while I study the ground beneath my boots. When I peek up at him, his eyes are wide and he’s staring at me.

“Wh-what?” he stutters.

I’m about to cry, the tears are already prickling behind my eyelids, and I can’t pretend this is part of the game we play because it’s so obviously not.  I turn and start walking in the other direction because I’m so embarrassed at what I’ve said. Then, there’s a gentle hand at my elbow and he turns me around and pulls me close into his arms, my face against his chest. He’s rubbing my back from my waist to my shoulder and back again. “Shh,” into my hair. Lew steps back and lets go, but he tips my chin up with his hand so that I look at him. “Don’t cry,” he says, so softly it’s just barely above a whisper.  

So here we are, just standing in this little cobblestone alley, looking at each other when he starts to lean down towards me. My heart’s flying in my chest, because I want him so much, and I have for a long time. His mouth just brushes mine, and I start to panic for a second, but then his lips are back. My arms reach up around his neck and we hold on to one another. His tongue licks at my bottom lip and our kiss deepens, all lips and teeth and tongues. My back is pressed up against the wall, and I sigh into Lew’s mouth when he cups my bottom and lifts me up so I’m level with him. I let my legs go around his waist, and, oh God, we’re all pressed against each other and his hands are on me and I can feel him against me and it’s been so long since anyone really loved me. His hand comes up my side, his fingers stop just to the side of my breast with his thumb underneath it, the other hand still on my ass, caressing me through my dress. I’m almost ashamed when I realize I’m rubbing my hips against him, but then he’s grinding back into me, and it feels good enough that I almost don’t care that we’re outside in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

Suddenly my feet are back on the ground and he’s pulling away from me. “I can’t do this,” he says. His eyes are on my face and I know he can tell I’m hurt. “No, no,” he explains shaking his head, “Just not here, not like this, in a fucking alley.” He kisses my forehead and smooths back my hair. “What if I come see you tonight? Would you like me to do that?”

I smile and nod while I look away and straighten my dress. “Yes, Lew, please.”

“All right, then, where are you staying this weekend?” I tell him and he says he’ll be there around nine, he wants to get cleaned up first and all that…And my head’s spinning a little because I can’t believe this is happening.

“Do you still want your chocolate?” He’s smirking again, but he takes my hand as we start walking towards the candy shop again. He buys my truffles for me.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s almost nine, and I’m freshly bathed and dressed in my best dress and my silky undies, which are the last impractical, pretty ones I have left. I’m nervous, which is silly, because this Lew. I fidget around my hotel room, picking things up and putting them down, sitting on the little loveseat and getting back up. I finally walked into my bathroom to look at my lipstick one more time and fix my hair again. I haven’t cut it in forever. It’s long and dark, falling not quite to my waist. I keep it pinned up all the time, no one ever sees it. I’m thinking that I look almost tempting when there’s a knock at my door.

I all but run across the room, but before I open it, I place my palm flat on the door and take a deep breath. I pull it open, and there he is, smiling down at me. He’s so much taller than I am. “Hi, cute girl,” he smirks, and we both just stand in the doorway looking at one another for a few seconds. Young male voices float down the hall, sounding drunk and boisterous. I grab Lew’s arm and pull him inside; it wouldn’t look good to have a man in my room; we girls are supposed to be above reproach. “Come in, come in,” I say, and he’s in my room with the door shut and we’re both laughing. “Do you want a drink?”

“Mm-hmm,” he murmurs, “but first--” He hands me the flowers he’s holding, somehow, he’s managed to find lilies of the valley, and gives me a kiss. “I know these are your favorites,” he whispers, “so I found them for you.” He pulls me into his arms and holds me close. He’s so handsome in his uniform, and he smells so good, fresh and clean. He hasn’t shaved, though, and he rubs his bristly chin on my forehead. I pet the stubble on his cheeks and he rubs his face into my neck, tickling me. I’m laughing when I go to put my flowers in water.

“Whiskey? I found some for you…”

“Yes, please.” He sits on my sofa and pats the seat next to him. “Then come and sit with me.” I bring him his glass and perch beside him. He sips and puts the glass down, turning toward me. He cups my face with his hands. “Look at me, Rissa. I need to know that this is what you want. That you want me, because I’m not easy to--to care about, and I think if this is you and me, that neither one of us is playing.”

“It’s dangerous to care about anyone now,” I start, “but I do.”

He nods and looks at me. “You’re talking about me, right?”

“Lew!” Suddenly, I’m moving as he pulls me into his lap. He tastes like whiskey and his mouth is warm on mine. His lips move to my throat and I swoon in his arms. My hands run up his arms to his shoulders pulling him toward me while he buries his face in my neck. Lew’s hand moves from my side to my left breast and I breathe in sharply. I can feel my nipples tightening underneath his touch. He unbuttons my dress and then we’re both pulling at it until it's lying crumpled on the floor. He slides his hand up my bare leg under my slip.

“You look so pretty, baby. Let me see you.” His right hand is curved behind my back, left hand on my thighs. He undoes my bra. I pull the straps down my arms and pull it out under my slip. I leave little baby kisses along his jaw up to his earlobe, nibbling at it. His fingers push my lacy slip from my shoulder and he caresses my bare breast. His tongue runs along my collarbone, down my breast, until he reaches my nipple. He suckles at me, his teeth scraping at me, but just lightly. “You know how I would rest my head on you? This, this is where I wanted to be.” Lew nuzzles his face between my breasts. His voice lowers. “And I think maybe you wanted me there, too. Your heart would beat so fast when we were close. I used to wonder if you wanted me to touch you as much as I wanted to touch you.” I nod and my head falls back. I make a small noise, almost a purr.

He caresses, then pinches, and I whisper to him, “Just a little harder, please. Please.” He does as I ask. We're both breathing raggedly, kissing desperately while he plays with one nipple, leaving the other ignored and throbbing. “Please, please, the other one, too,” I beg, and his fingers are there, hurting me so pleasantly. I can feel the moisture between my legs, dampening my panties. He alternates between my breasts, pinching my nipples while I writhe in his lap. “Please, Lew, please, please.” Words pour out of my mouth, dirty nonsense that would make me blush any other time, but not now while I enjoy the sweet pain he’s inflicting on me. His head dips down suddenly and he takes my nipple between his teeth, biting gently at first, then harder until it’s too much. He lets go with a little kiss, sucking tenderly. He brushes them with his fingers, hardly touching, but I moan and sigh because they’re so sensitive, enough so that I can tell they’ll be sore tomorrow. I grind my backside into his lap, I can’t keep still, I turn a little so I can move my hand to touch him though his pants. He’s warm and swollen under my palm. I feel him twitch and I adore the sounds he’s making and I let my legs fall open for him.

“What about this?” His other hand moves from my thighs to my panties, one finger moving gently up and down between my legs. He pushes my panties aside and the tip of his finger is just at my entrance. “Does that feel good, Rissa? God, you’re so wet for me.” I whine in my throat, full of need, aching with it, and two of his fingers move into me, move inside of me, then trace circles until I can’t keep quiet, and back inside again, back and forth, under my white silk panties. “Come for me, baby. I want to see you come.” And I do, stars behind my eyelids while I lie in his lap. When my eyes open, he’s looking down at me with naked desire and I can feel him, hard under my bottom.

“Sweetheart, let’s go to bed.” He lifts me up and carries me to the big soft bed, laying me down gently. I pull my slip over my head and curl up on my side to watch him. Lew takes his clothes off and throws them over the chair, until he’s just in his t-shirt and boxers. He kneels on the bed and I get up on my knees to face him. My hands run over his chest before I pull at his t-shirt. He grins at me when he raises his arms up and lets me pull the shirt off over his head. I giggle until he pushes me down into the mattress and puts his hands on my hips. My panties are gone, and so are his boxers a minute later. He’s beautiful, naked in my bed with me, in the dim light from the lamp in the next room. I sit up to touch him, up his arms to his shoulders, down his chest to his hips to his backside--which, I can’t lie, I sometimes can’t help but stare at. He kisses my shoulder, whispering about the pale freckles I have there, his arms are around me and he lays me down on the clean white sheets.

He lays down next to me and we’re still for a moment while I lie in the crook of his arm. Then my hands are on him again, moving down his chest and his belly to where he’s hard and wanting. My mouth follows my hands, leaving a trail of little kisses. I can feel the muscles in his abdomen jump under my lips, I can hear the little sounds he’s making, and then he’s in my mouth and he tastes so good. “Fuck, fuck, oh fuck--” His voice trails off as his hips buck. He pulls at my hair until it falls around us. “Come here, come here,” he’s gasps, and he’s holding me again and I can hear his heart thunder in his chest. Lew rolls us over and then he’s on top of me, between my thighs. “Look at me, look at me,” he murmurs, so I’m looking right into his face when he finally, finally pushes into me. He goes so achingly slowly at first, it’s exquisite. His tongue is in my mouth while he thrusts into me and he rolls us again so that I’m over him. He reaches for my breasts, teasing, gentle, until he gets to my nipples. He pulls and pinches while I move over him, almost involuntarily. His hands fall to my hips and he moves my body with his arms, guiding me into the rhythm he wants. My arms are braced on the bed, my breasts in his face, he kisses and licks and sucks as his hips buck under me.

I whimper please, Lew, please over and over, begging him to keep going, not to stop, telling him that he feels so good inside me, filling me up. He’s talking, too, telling me he won’t stop, promising he won’t stop, it feels too fucking good to stop. He moves me onto my back again, but pulls my legs up over his shoulders. He’s thrusting so deep into me and his hands are everywhere. My breasts, my sore, tender nipples, my belly, then between my legs, circling that little bundle of nerves, making me cry out his name. I try to reach for any part of him within my grasp, we’re both sweating and moaning, I’m pushing back at him with every thrust. His fingers are fluttering. I know he’s so close and I am, too. His pace is becoming frantic and he grasps at my hips. I come fiercely, trembling, with his name on my lips. His fingers dig into my flesh, he’s thrusting erratically so far into me, as deep inside me as he can possibly be. His pubic bone grinds against my delicate lips and the taut knot between them, and it happens again. I don’t even have words to scream, he’s pushed me so far beyond that. I contract around him while he’s slamming into me completely lost to anything else. He groans, eyes shut tight, a string of curses mixed with endearments falls from his lips, and I feel him spill hot inside me.

Later, Lew pulls the blankets over both of us, and when he lies back down his hand curves around me, fitting between my thighs. He gently plays with the me, tracing little patterns with his finger. I lie there, my legs open a little for him, drowsy now. “That feels nice,” I tell him. And then, nervous again, I whisper “Are you staying?”

He whispers back yes, he’ll buy me some breakfast in the morning. I fall asleep with my head on his chest, his hand still between my legs, soothing the tender spots inside.

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, I wake to see him leaning over me, feeling his finger run lightly along the edge of my areola. We have a bath. He blushes when I tell him to lift up so I can wash his bottom and I hiss through my teeth when he rubs the rough washcloth across my nipples. Lew tells me he’ll make them feel better, and he kisses and suckles while he washes me, finding that one spot again, slipping his fingers inside, until I tell him I need more. He’s happy to oblige me. There’s water all over the bathroom floor when our bath is done.

He takes me to breakfast. We spend the day together, the weekend. It’s over too fast, but there’s nothing to be done about it. We both have jobs to do. When it gets really bad, and he’s not there to put an arm around me or listen to my heart, I remember how it was in that room, with a clean soft bed and a tub full of hot water.

 

* * *

 

 

That’s the way it was for the rest of the time. We were together when we could be and apart when we had to be. We wrote letters and postcards, and I worried about him all the time. I learned all the secrets of his body and he learned mine. I touched him where no one else had, and the first time he kissed me _there_ I couldn’t believe anything could possibly feel so good. Sometimes it was tender and sweet, and others he told me what to do and he took me roughly, his pinches and love-bites sometimes leaving little bruises on my body, on my breasts, on my thighs and between them, too. I loved it though. I’m ashamed to say I liked the bruises, the way they marked me as his. For all that, it wasn’t ever just fucking between us, because even when it was fucking we were making love, too.

I loved him. I love him so much, it wasn’t ever just the sex, but having someone else to comfort and be comforted by, someone to share the burdens, and the horrors, and tiny, fleeting moments of joy, too. We came from such different places; he thought it was funny that I knew how to milk a cow, and I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t intimidated by his upbringing and education. He found out that I didn’t care about his name at all, I would have known him, the person he is, anywhere. He was right, it wasn’t easy to love him--he drank too much, he was jaded, and so disillusioned--yet I did, completely, with my whole heart. Neither one of us said those words, though, not for a long time. He looked at me once, in another town in another part of Europe, and he said “We do, but we don’t say it,” and I nodded up at him, content to have a minute of peace next to this man that I love, God help me, more than I’ve ever loved anyone else. He’s sarcastic and cynical, which I love, and he can be moody and petulant, which I don’t, and the amount of whiskey he goes through is astronomical, but he’s mine, at least until this is all over and I go home to find whatever is left for me there.

One night, after I’d seen and heard and smelled too much and I needed to know there was still something sweet and good left in the world, I went to him. I remember feeling like I’d never be clean again. We had bath, and bed, and love. When it was over and his head was on my chest again, ear to my heart, he was toying with my nipple absently. It was tender, but his fingers were gentle, so it was a pleasant ache. He said it so quietly that I almost didn’t hear, but I did and I whispered it back. I felt him smile against my breast before we curled up together and fell asleep in a bed that belonged to someone else.

There’s something about those three small words, isn’t there? Three plain simple little words, only eight letters all together, but they’re the reason for everything that matters. They can change everything, make the impossible possible, feed souls, and ruin lives or give you a reason to keep living.

I was scared the day I stood in front of him and told him about the tiny life in my belly, but Lew told me he was going to take me home with him. If our child was born here that would be fine, and we would all three of us all go home together. A few days later, Lew got down on one knee and asked me a question. He’d already had the ring.

We had a boy who looked like his father. Lew was there with me when our son was born in a country half a world away from the one we call home. We did go back together, and I bought a white dress, and we said the words that so many couples have said before us, but I don’t know if anyone ever meant them more than we did in the soft spring twilight. My bouquet was lilies of the valley that day, too.

Later that night, when we were alone, Lew asked me again, one eyebrow raised and a smirk on his lips, “What do you want, Mrs. Nixon?”

“You,” I told him.


	2. Birds in Flight

It must have been beautiful here before. Right now, it’s a bombed, sooty mess, sad ruins that were lovely once. The grass is trampled, windows are broken, and even the people are brown and grey and drab today. Children should never look like this. I used to believe people were basically good, and maybe I still do, but not right now, and not today. I feel old, spent, used up, and mostly tired, but in a detached, passive way. It's hard to find it in me to care about almost anything.

The steps I’m standing on are worn but not quite dilapidated and sinking into the ground. Behind me, inside a building that’s been repurposed into a makeshift hospital, is a never-ending stream of sick, wounded, and dying men. I don’t want to see a single one of them. ‘You’re an angel,’ they say. Angel, my ass. I’m a sinner just like everyone else, an ordinary girl who’s scared and far from home and who pretends that she knows what she’s doing when she doesn’t. I really wonder how many of us are flying by the seats of our pants. What I do know is that I’m completely exhausted, physically and emotionally, but there is no respite for any of us, not today.

Or maybe there is. War-torn fields stretch out in front of me, patches of green grass untouched between ugly furrows and craters. The sky is a beautiful brilliant blue, completely incongruous with the sounds and smells and surroundings. I can’t see, and I know I don’t want to see beyond the tree-line. We’re surrounded by blood and bone, torn and burned flesh every day; so easy to rip apart, so hard to put back together. The putting back together is bad enough, I don’t need to see the destruction. There’s a distant whistle followed by an explosion. No one even looks up. A bird startles from amid the trees, though. Some kind of hawk, maybe. He lets out a shriek as he takes flight, wheeling off into the sky and disappearing. Lucky bird, he can go wherever he wants.

Tears are threatening to fall from my eyes and I try hard to keep them in check. I’ve just got a tiny stub of my cigarette left. My mother would be turning in her grave if she could see me; my father would have winked. I put my hand to my head and heave a sigh. I should go back in, but I’m not ready yet. And then strong arms wrap around me and there’s a kiss on the nape of my neck.

“Hey,” he says in an undertone. I breathe in, inhaling his scent.

“Hi,” I whisper, smiling down at my feet. It’s the first time I’ve smiled all day; it's sad and small, but it’s real.

“I only have a few minutes,” Lew says quietly into my ear. When I turn to look up at him, his smile is crooked. “But I wanted to spend them with you.” He’s twenty-six, but his eyes look about a thousand years old today. “You look like shit, Rissa.”

That actually makes me laugh, a bitter bark of laughter, but again it’s genuine. “Thank you, Lewis. You really know how to flatter a girl.” He responds in the best way possible, just tightening his arms around me, and then turning me so I can cry against his chest. Sometimes you don’t need words. When I’m done, he gives me a filthy hanky. I find the cleanest corner to wipe my eyes. I don’t have anything else, even my sleeves are covered in God-knows-what.

“You’ve never been to New York, have you, Rissa?” He already knows the answer, but I shake my head anyway. I turn to look out at the trees again and Lew holds me, my back to his front.

“I lived in Chicago with Johnny, though. I guess it’s not the same. Probably nothing’s like New York.”

“And you grew up milking cows in Illinois.”

“Yep, I was a farm-girl, milking Holsteins before school. The black and white ones.” It sounds pastoral, serene to anyone who’s never lived on a farm. There’s life and death there, too, and always more work that needs to be done. Some of it was back-breaking. Johnny didn’t want to be a farmer and I didn’t want to be a farmer’s wife. I learned to be a nurse while Johnny went to college. We had an apartment, a third story walk-up. He had a job, I had a job, we had plans to start a family. Then came Hitler, and Pearl Harbor, and somehow it all led to me being here, and Johnny being in the ground. I’m twenty-three and I feel like I’ve lived a dozen lifetimes.

“I know what Holstein cows are,” Lew says dryly. He pulls me closer. There’s no one to see us, and that’s good. As of yet, nobody knows that we’ve crossed that line between friends and something more. Well, no one besides Lise. I had to tell _someone_ and she’s the best and truest friend I have. And whoever Lew might or might not have told. I’m not ready to be fodder for gossip yet.

“You’re right. Nothing is like New York. I think you’d like it, though.” He kisses the crown of my head. “I’d take you to Central Park and we’d have a picnic. I’d show you the dinosaurs at the Museum of Natural History. We could go sailing.” He talks and talks, quietly into my ear, about where he’d take me and what he’d show me. He tells me about the places we’d eat and drink and dance, about places we could stay, about the library, about how it’s always busy, never empty, always a distraction if you need one. His voice lulls me and I feel comforted, even if only temporarily. Sometimes words make it better. The trick is, I think, knowing which one the other person needs.

I twist in his arms and smile up at him and Lew kisses me firmly on the mouth. Heavy footsteps come towards the open door, and Lew lets go of me abruptly just as Dr. Watney pokes his head out the doorway. “I need your help, Clarissa.” He nods at Lew and goes back inside.

“I have to go.” I gesture back towards the empty doorway.

“Just--I’ll see you later, right?”

“Right. Of course.” He gives me one last hurried kiss good-bye, and I watch him walk down the steps and toward the road. He walks briskly, all business now. I call to him just before he disappears around the corner. “Lew--Thank you.”

“Any time, Rissa.” He gives me a smirk and a wink and then he’s gone.

I go back inside to find Dr. Watney. It’s my job, it’s my duty, and I can do it now, maybe not cheerfully, but not begrudgingly either. A quarter of an hour can make such a difference, if you spend it in the right company.

Oh, and that damned hawk? He came back right before I shut the door. Gluttons for punishment, we are.


	3. Plain White Cotton

Lew puts a kiss behind my knee, then a small nip, making me giggle. Then it’s my thigh and I’m not giggling anymore. Finally, he dismisses my plain white cotton underwear and I wait for him to crawl up over me, to settle between my thighs and lie on me. We can't, we mustn't, do anything more than kiss and hold and touch in the Miller’s sitting room, but even so, I want to feel him on top of me. He doesn’t, though, instead staying at my feet beside the camel back sofa I’m lounging on.

He plays with the hem of my dress, my favorite one, the robin’s egg blue one, pushing the polka dot rayon up and down my thigh and pulling my knees wide apart.

“You’ll wrinkle it.” My voice is sweet and tender, indulgent, really. I don’t care at all if he wrinkles my dress.

He smirks up at me and gathers the skirt up to my waist, exposing me, and I frantically try to push it back down. “The door’s shut, Rissy,” he says, playing with me, gently prodding under my dress, teasing, opening my folds and finding me damp. I move his hand, even though I don't really want to; I feel empty and I want him, but I am still a good girl.

“It’s not locked!” I hiss at him.

He raises one eyebrow at me and I blush. It’s a bit disconcerting how quickly things have fallen into place between us. It’s been very simple, easy, and almost no one knows. It’s not a secret exactly, just private. Whatever this is between us is a little too new and too precious to share quite yet, at least with anyone other than the people we’re closest to. It’s just blind luck we’re alone right now, everyone else out on various errands or engagements. Later, if anyone asks him where he was, Lew will wink and say he was out. If anyone asks me, I’ll smile and change the subject obviously, play at being coy.

“There’s no one here,” he says. “Just us.” His smile is mischievously wolfish and his eyes dance up at me over my knee. I’m holding my dress down with both hands, leaving enough space between my knees for him to lounge there. Those deft fingers slide up the outside of my bare thigh, his mouth following in their wake until he reaches my hip. He leaves a trail of tiny kisses across my belly, lighting little embers and I flinch, feeling naked and vulnerable. He’s kneeling in front of me, my underwear at his knees.

He grasps my hips, pulling me to the edge of the sofa, and I let him move me, waiting for him to crawl over me again. Instead, though, he kisses me, right above the curls between my thighs.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Hmm,” he hums, burrowing his face between my legs, “Kissing you, silly girl.” I can feel the rumble of his voice against my skin. He drops three kisses, each lower than the last, and I whine far back in my throat. Lew’s hand massages my thigh and curls around my hip, embracing me and reassuring me, anxious girl that I am. I’ve loved and been loved enthusiastically, but this is new; uncharted territory. His lips are warm, I can feel his breath, all the way down until he reaches the entrance to my body. Once there his tender kissing deepens, his tongue teasing, then barely inside, then his mouth pressed tightly to me, and he puts a long, languid lick through my folds until he reaches the taut knot that makes me draw in a sharp breath.

It’s good, so good, I didn’t know it was even possible to feel pleasure so keen, I can’t help but to twine my fingers in his hair, holding him to me while I arch my hips toward his mouth. I catch my reflection, our reflection, in the mirror, his dark head in my lap, my legs thrown over his shoulders. He kisses and licks and I whisper his name over and over again, afraid that I won’t be able to control my voice if I let myself do anything other than whisper. Then he sucks at me, once, twice, three times.

“Oh-oh, oh, fuck. Oh, Lew. Oh, fuck.” I can’t keep either quiet or still, writhing in his grasp.

“Yeah?” his mouth moving against me.

“Yes, oh God, yes.”

“Not quite yet, baby. Gonna draw it out a little.”

He laps and kisses, but not _there_ , the barest trace of his teeth, gentlest of nips and deep kisses, and it’s a relief when his fingers first tease and finally press into me, fluttering and caressing. My breathing is harsh, I’m desperately trying to keep my moans and whimpers quiet; his are muffled and vibrating against me.

The front door opens, whistling and boots in the hall. Someone murmuring to herself. It must be Lise, back from the market.

Lew’s eyes lift to my face, lips full and pink and wet, and I’m caught between the urge to climb down onto the floor and kiss him, kiss him, kiss him and to beg him to keep going.

“Do you want me stop?” he whispers. Lise passes the sitting room door and goes up the stairs, her footfalls fading away to nothing.

I can’t do anything but shake my head and lift my hips, feeling shameless, wanting his mouth on me.

He delves in, lapping and sucking right where I need him, until my ankles are locked behind his neck and I’m rocking against the sofa, pulling him closer. His fingers move inside me, mouth drawing at me, and I’m coiled so tight, and then tighter, and then impossibly so, and it all comes apart at once. I’m shuddering, boneless, while he kneels in front of me, holding my legs open and watching. And then he places a soft little kiss there, a little flick of his tongue, while I watch him wide-eyed. He sighs and smiles into my swollen and open flesh.

Lew wipes his face, clean-shaven for once, and his chin with my panties, then gently dries me, too, and pulls my dress down over my thighs before he clambers up next to me.  
       He kisses me, kneading my breasts, finding my nipples through my dress. I suck on his tongue, kissing him as deeply as I can, my fingers in his hair again.

“You taste so good,” he whispers, nuzzling my neck and pulling me into his lap. “D’you like it?” I kiss him for an answer. Straddling him, feeling him under me when I grind nakedly in his lap, still kissing. I can feel his pulse in his throat when I nestle there and let out a shaky breath.

The door opens and we break apart slowly. His fingers cling to me; mine cling to him. Lise snickers as we disentangle before she plops into a chair and grins at us.  “Hello, love-birds.”

I slide off Lew’s lap, knees carefully together, but he keeps my bare legs in his lap, hiding the tenting in his trousers. My panties peek out of his pocket.

“Do the two of you want some lunch? My James is coming in a bit.” Her James, her fiancé, as opposed to Dr.-Watney-James, whom she somehow manages to call by his given name. Lise is the only nurse who can do that, even I wouldn’t dare to. She’s so very French, with her mouth puckered and eyebrow raised. “Are the two of you hot? It’s very warm today. You should open a window, Rissa, you are all pink. Lew, too. You are over-heated.” That’s Lise, looking like the cat who ate the canary, and offering to make us food while she gently mocks us. She’s cool and collected where Lew and I are flushed and disheveled, and he’s obviously--hopefully only to me-- frustrated. Because I can, I burrow my bare foot in his lap, teasing, until he circles my ankle with his fingers and moves it away firmly.

I give him a saucy look and turn my face to Lise, making my expression a caricature of innocence. “We would love lunch. And you’re right, it’s very warm in here.” I get up to open the window, leaving poor Lew with nothing but his hands to cover himself with.

He shoots me dirty glances until Lise gets up to fix lunch. As soon as she’s out of the room, he swats at me, and we tussle almost silently while Lise hums in the kitchen. Then James comes in and lunch is on the table, and we have to get up and straighten our clothes--and pretend to be responsible adults. We are, really. We have to be, but that only makes it so much harder to behave when we could play instead. No one can be responsible and proper _all_ the time.

The table is full of easy conversation and laughter, good-natured teasing. But still, I’m glad that Lise didn't walk in five minutes earlier than she did. I love her and all, and we’re close, but we’re not _that_ close. I watch Lew eat grapes, how he puts them between his lips and pops them into his mouth, how the muscles in his jaw work. He catches me staring, his lips quirk and he smirks at me, biting one deliberately and wiping the juice from the corner of his lips with one finger. I blush when he puts that finger to his mouth.

Finally, James and Lise, love-birds themselves, leave for a walk. She giggles, whispers in my ear that we are _not_ to visit the pond, before she follows James out the door and into the sunshine.

I start the washing up, I’m elbow deep in dish-water when Lew’s arms come around me and his chin rests on the crown of my head. He holds me against his body for a few minutes, and then he whispers quietly, “I have to go, Rissa.” He kisses the top of my head. His hands are where they shouldn’t be, he’s only cradling me like I’m something precious. I bow my head and feel his lips at my nape. “I’ll see you later?” But he doesn’t let go of me and my fingers cling to him, too. It’s not long before we’re kissing again, rubbing against each other. He gestures to the stairs and I shake my head.

“Mr. and Mrs. Miller will be home soon. They already put up with Lise and me, I don’t want to scandalize them.”

“I’m sure you two give them lots to put up with. Silly girls.” He pinches my waist and I giggle, grinning up at him. “Tonight, we’ll have dinner and cocktails, and we’ll dance, and then…”

“And then?”

“I’ll find some place to corrupt you.”

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm. Definitely. God, I’d do it now if we could.”

“Oh, I’d like that.” I bite my lip and look up at him, eyes big and innocent. I finger his tie and stand on tiptoe, putting my mouth to his ear. “But can we…Will you do that thing again? What you just did?” I'm flushed red.

“See? I haven’t lost my touch. It’s working, you can’t get enough of me,” he teases.

“I really can’t.” I’m blushing, “Get enough of you, Lew.”

“Whatever you want then, Rissy. I can’t really get enough of you, either.” He gives me a smacking kiss, and leaves, whistling.

When Lise and her James come back, they are the ones disheveled and a little the worse for wear.

 

* * *

           

Later, there is dinner and dancing and many, many cocktails. We have a big table which is cluttered with half-empty glasses and ashtrays, surrounded by friends and laughter, and a cloud of smoke hangs over it. I’m seated next to Lew. Ostensibly because we ‘happened’ to arrive at the same time. He holds my hand under the table and I let mine settle in his lap, rubbing his thigh with my thumb. No one else knows, and it's a delicious little secret. He flirts and teases, but then he always does. What no one else can see is his fingers twined with mine, how tender he can be when no one else is looking.

When he waltzes me around under the bistro lights, he holds me close and I nestle into him, resting my face on his chest. We’re both well-lubricated by then, him on his Vat 69, me on French 75’s. It’s dark, and the band is playing, and I’m tipsy and grinning up at him. That's when he kisses me on the mouth in the middle of a crowded dance floor in front of his friends and mine. There are catcalls and clapping, someone whistles and I hear Lise’s laugh.

Lew leads me back to the table, grinning, and he pulls my chair out for me, I drop into it, playing at being coy while Lise laughs out of one side of her mouth, the way it seems only French girls can. Lew’s mouth is warm and insistent; our kisses taste like whiskey and cigarettes and champagne. It's only when Dick clears his throat that we break apart, flushed and happy. I cover my face, blushing, drawing my legs onto my chair and leaning against him, and Lew’s arm comes around me. I feel safe and warm and blissfully content. For a long time, I let the conversation wash around me, relishing the last bites of my food, my cocktail, the warm light, Lew’s open, animated face, and the arm that holds me close against his side.

It was fun. I haven't laughed so hard in so long. And, Jesus, we dance, all of us. There are so many more men than girls. It’s all very romantic; all these handsome men in uniform and pretty girls in bright dresses, but I always come back to Lew. I fit myself against him, and we’re really dancing too close to be in public, and his hands don’t stay where they ought to be, but it’s dark and no one cares. They play ‘The Way You Look Tonight’ and he smiles down at me and tells me I'm pretty, and then it's ‘At Last’ and I thank God that I'm right where I am. Then it's time to leave, so we gather our things, and say our good-byes. It’s a flurry of hugs, hand-shakes, and kisses on cheeks, good-nights and nice-to-have-met-you’s, and then we’re all out on the street heading in different directions.

There's a misty little rain falling, it's like something out of a movie as Lew and I walk together, but we haven't anywhere to go. The Millers are back at home; I can't bring a man there, and Lew’s billeted in a shared room so we can't go there either. We can't go to a hotel after midnight, not in this small village where everyone knows everyone else, even Lew’s not quite that shameless, and besides it would be food for gossip. Sweet, grandmotherly Mrs. Miller would never recover, not that she would say anything to me, but she'd be disappointed, and that’s worse.

So, it’s good-night on the back porch for us. He rubs and clutches, feeling my bottom, pressing me to him so I can feel him too, and he’s stiff and ready in his pants. He’s almost growling in frustration. I touch him, he touches me, hand up my skirt, finding me ready, too. It devolves into fondling and rutting, him hard against my hip, pushing and us both breathing raggedly, his fingers inside me and me groping his bottom while he grinds against me. With a groan, I pull back and tell him, “I should go in.” A few minutes more and I’d let him take me on the Miller’s back porch.

“I want to make love with you.” His eyes are black pools in the dark. He gives me a crooked smirk and I giggle, it’s funny--he wants to make love, not rut like animals--but we’re both desperate and it’s like we’re not adults at all, like we’re teenagers after a date, nowhere to go to be alone.

“I know. I want you so much, but there's no--”

“What about there?” He points to the small greenhouse and grins, picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist, pressing myself against his cock and he lurches across the lawn cupping my ass.

Once we’re inside he lets me down and I drop to my knees, slowly reaching for his belt. I look up at him in the dark while I do what I do, trying to make him feel as good as he made me feel earlier. He moans and sighs while I work, his hands firmly in my hair, holding me in place. Lew’s hips move under my hands and he shudders. I feel almost greedy, I want him, too, and I’m not ready for it to be over. I mouth his hip bone, burrowing there. He smells fantastic.

When I finally stand up, he lifts me up onto the potting table.

“Rissy, d’you still want me to--?”

“Yes, yes, please, yes.”

He teases and it's so good. Lips and teeth and tongue at my vagina, then higher up, his face buried between my legs until I beg him to put his cock in me. I want him so much I'm almost crying with need. “Please, please, put it in me. I need you.”

He grunts in response, gives me one last, wet, suck, and moves over me. He pushes his pants down just far enough and comes to me, so close, but not yet touching. His eyes search my face and we both smile.

I reach down to guide him in, touching him and touching myself. It’s a relief once he’s finally inside me, I give up a tiny mewl when he pushes in. His thrusting is slow and smooth and steady, my hand still playing between us, his hands on my breasts, my nipples while he moves in me and the table creaks under us. We make little noises, trying to be quiet. We make love until we’re both shuddering and he fills me up with his fluid. I can feel him pulsing inside of me, and he lets out a low groan. It doesn't take long, not after this afternoon and all our canoodling this evening and the pent-up frustration on the porch.

Afterwards, when everything is all buttoned up and tucked in again, we sit on the floor together, looking up at friendly stars through the greenhouse roof. Star shine lights up the raindrops sliding down the glass and the only sound is the gentle rain. I sigh contentedly into his shoulder. I’m drowsy and satisfied and still slightly tipsy, and--I can hardly think it--more than a little in love with him.

He lights a Lucky Strike, the tip if it glows orange in the dark, and we share, passing it back and forth. We comfortably sit side by side in an easy silence. When the cigarette is gone, he looks down and cups my face with one hand and I turn towards it.

“I wish I could stay with you tonight.”

“That would be nice, Rissy.” It would be, too, to crawl into bed with him and make a warm cocoon for the both of us where we could hide from the world. I don’t want the night to be over, and he must not either. He plays with the ends of my hair, and I feel something inside me loosen, something I hadn’t even known was hurting until the pain stopped. For the first time since I can remember, I feel like I’ve come home. The tiny smile that plays around my lips is mirrored on his face. Stars twinkle above us and it feels like it’s just Lew and me at the end of the earth. For a long time, nothing else matters and the world is confined to the two of us.

“We need to get you inside, sweetheart. The poor Millers don't need to find us here in the morning.”

“No,” I agree.

He walks me back to the porch and gives me a proper good-night kiss, the kind a gentleman gives a young lady after a proper date, not after making love on a potting table in someone else’s greenhouse. But who am I to complain?

He leaves, whistling again and I lock the door and slip up the stairs in stocking feet, my shoes dangling from my hand.

Lise sits on her bed, smoking next to the open window. She looks at me from head to toe. “You're all dirty,” she says as I take off my stockings and plop down beside her.

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” I say, feigning innocence, “I was otherwise occupied.” My deep red dress is smudged with potting soil, but it doesn’t escape me that her sapphire one is much more wrinkled than it should be, even if she is sitting carelessly cross-legged on the bed.

“We are a pair of very bad, bad _filles_.”

We share the cigarette in silence for a few minutes.

“Well, they wouldn't have liked it if we didn't come home after a night out with boys.” We are really both good girls, and truthfully neither one of us wants to hurt or disappoint people who’ve been so kind to us, treating us like daughters and welcoming us into a real home.

“Where did you go?”

“The greenhouse,” I say sheepishly, and she lets out a little bark of a laugh. “You?”

“A car.”

“Their car?”

“Someone’s car. It was not locked.” We snicker until there are tears running down our faces.

“We’ll have to go to confession.”

“ _Chère_ , it would be easier to be good if we didn't love them so much, _non_?”

I don't answer her. Instead I look at my hands, at my bare ring finger. My wedding band and Johnny’s are now carefully put away together, the way they have been since the first night Lew came to my room.

“It's alright to love him, Rissa. It won't make anything happen to him. We all need love, especially now.”

“I just didn't know you knew, is all.” I pause. “I'm glad you're my friend. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

She smiles, “We’re a pair.” And that's the truth, both of us pale with dark hair we refuse to have cut, wide eyes that can look incredibly innocent, and a way of appearing very sweet and easily hurt, but we both also have the same steel core and frank determination hiding under the surface. An appreciation for the absurd and a generous helping of black humor that keeps us from going completely insane. Good-natured sarcasm and caustic tongues. All the things no one suspects until they really know us. I can only hope that I'm as good and kind and generous as she is, with such a huge capacity for love. She would do anything for the ones she loves, lucky for me I'm one of them.

Her mouth quirks up. “Oh, we both needed a place. And some time with our young men. It’s our duty. Keeping up the morale and all that.”

My brown eyes meet her laughing blue ones. “I can't believe you, you're shameless.”

“ _You_ were the one in their sitting room this morning, practically making love to him on their sofa. I'm no worse than you are, _chère_.”

(I am worse than she is. She's engaged to be married, at least. Lew is married, and not to me, but she doesn't judge either of us for that. Maybe because she’s French, and they’re fools for love, especially real, true, pure love, which this just might be. At least that's what I tell myself, when I let myself spin little fantasies in my head, the sweet kind about what-might-happen, even though I have a fair number of more anatomical ones as well. Even if he does have a wife and a child. I'm not sure about the wife, but I couldn't hurt a child. So, this has to be temporary. And that is heart-breaking, which is why I almost never let myself think about it. There are more immediate concerns. You know, a war, staying alive, and all.)

She must know what I'm thinking. “You love him, and I think he loves you, too. That makes it okay, I think. _C’est l’amour, c’est la vie_.” She spreads her hands out the way my mother would when she didn't have the words to explain.

I giggle and sigh. “I hope you're right, or else I'm going to hell.”

“Oh, _bébé_ , we are there already, so we might as well have our fun.”

The cigarette is gone, and she turns out the lamp.

We undress quickly in the chilly, damp air, into our nightgowns and into our beds. It's been a perfect day, and I still don't want it to end quite yet. Lise must feel the same way, because we whisper and giggle for a long time into the night like the girls we once were, even if we didn't know each other then.

Sometimes you find your family, just as I found a sister here, a girl from a completely different country, someone I never would have met if not for this goddamn mess. Funny how life can give you so much horror, and yet even in that there are still good bits, too. Maybe it’s all the sweeter for that.


	4. Late Spring Picnic, 1944

Lew took me out for a picnic in early June. We had a blue checkered blanket, ham sandwiches, strawberries, and cookies I baked myself, all tucked into a wicker basket. We’ve even got a couple bottles of red wine. It was cool and tart, and the afternoon has been absolutely perfect. It’s also unseasonably warm, so I’ve unbuttoned the top two buttons on my dress and my slip is peeking out. Lew’s tie is loosened, his collar is open. The two of us have been sprawled out on the blanket the entire afternoon in the sunshine.

He’s leaning back against a huge English oak tree with shadows dappling his face. My head is comfortably resting in his lap and he absently strokes my hair. I watch his lips around his cigarette. It’s nearly summer, and it’s nearly time for him to do whatever it is that he’s got to do, and I am scared. I try to put that out of mind, though, on this lazy afternoon.

It’s bucolic, all pale lemon sunshine and green grass and lilies of the valley. Muguet are my favorite, they always have been. My Grammy called them Mary’s Tears, tears that turned into tiny fragrant blossoms when the blessed Virgin cried at her son’s feet. They say the poppies were white in Flanders, too, before they turned red. This afternoon is like something from a picture-book; the sky is blue, the clouds are white and fluffy, and fat bumble-bees wander through the wildflowers. I’m here with someone I love, someone who I strongly suspect loves me back. I could almost be home; I could almost be seventeen again.

I’m not, though. I’m twenty-three and I’ve lived a lifetime since I used to picnic with Johnny.

Tears, bitter and salty, leak out from beneath my eyelids. Fear, anxiety, and grief squeeze my heart--it’s just too much to bear--and I don’t want to sob in front of Lew. If I let them fall, these won’t be pretty tears, I’ll cry until I’m ugly with it. He’s seen me tease and laugh, scared and quiet, and he’s seen me cry, but not like this. No one, not even Lise, ever sees this.

I turn my face, nuzzling his lap, letting my hands wander over his body, distracting myself, wanting to feel good.

His warm hand skims up my side, over my breast, until his palm is at my cheek. His finger tips my chin up, forcing me to look at him. His mouth is poised as if to say something, full lips gathered, I want to kiss him. I reach for his belt and he shakes his head, taking both my wrists in one hand.

“Clarissa, Rissy, We’re not going to do that, we’re not even going to make love.” He traces my cheekbone, runs a finger along the edge of my ear.

“But--"

“It’s not that I don’t want you, sweetheart, ‘cause I do. But that’s not what you need right now.”

“But, Lew--"

“Uh-uh, baby. You need to cry. So you go ahead, you cry. Cry for Johnny, cry for all of ‘em, cry for yourself, and cry a little for me, too. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Not today--those are the words that hang in the air, unsaid. It won’t be long, though. The uncertainty and the anticipation make it worse. When you can actually _do_ something, it gets a little better, waiting makes you feel helpless.

My sobs rack me and I do cry until I’m ugly with it. Red-faced, shoulders heaving, nose running; I must look disgusting. Through it all, Lew cradles me in his arms, presses kisses to my temple, forehead, eyelids. He avoids my mouth, which is understandable; my face is a mess, what with my tears and my running nose.

When I’ve cried myself out and the sobs are reduced to hiccups, I look up at him again, my head on his shoulder. His poor shirtfront is wet, my eyes are red and swollen. Lew gives me his clean handkerchief and I dab at my face, but I’m beyond a hanky. He ends up pouring water on the blanket and using that to clean my face.

I sit up shakily, turning towards him. Both his hands come up to frame my face.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

“Look at me,” he says. “Don’t you ever, ever apologize for being soft or for caring. You can be brave and strong and be funny, and that’s great, but be soft, too.”

His mouth is soft when I kiss him. Tart, wine-flavored kisses, gentle and sweet while he’s still cupping my head. A minute later I shift into his lap and he holds me. No clutching, just a tender embrace. His hands are at my back, my sides, rubbing and soothing. Lew comforts me for a long while. He’s gentleman, kissing and caressing, but nothing improper.

Birds sing above us and he holds me. The sun moves across the sky and I let myself feel the sadness and the fear and the anxiety, and it’s okay. I don’t have to pretend with Lew.

“You let me in, Rissy, in every way that matters.” He swallows. “Thank you.”

“Hey, Lew?”

“Yeah?”

“Return the favor?” He does, he talks for a long time, his eyes shut and his throat working, almost choking on his words in places. My head is in his lap again; I watch his face while he watches his hands. I let my tears fall, not bothering to hide them--I can’t stand to think of him being hurt. He has a tear or two of his own that I wipe away with my thumb.

Finally, that pale lemon light is gone and it’s replaced by cool violet twilight. I shiver and Lew puts his jacket around my shoulders, pulling my hair out from under the collar.

“It’s time to go, baby.”

He rises, and then leans to help me up, pulling me into his arms. He kisses me and swats my bottom, and I giggle. If it’s okay to be sad, it’s alright to be happy, too. I am happy right now, here, with Lew. I feel light, unburdened, and very close to him.

We pick up our things, all of our napkins and empty bottles, plates and silverware, the bits of leftover food, and stow them back in the basket. We fold the blanket together, moving in the same dance that I saw my parents do throughout my childhood. Together, apart, together again, kissing, warm and comforting.

Then I tickle him and he jumps away laughing, so I give chase. He wheels around, lifting me over his shoulder so my backside is up in the air. He bends to pick up our picnic basket and I squeal. He jogs back to the waiting car that we borrowed for the afternoon. It’s warm from the sun inside, pleasant and cozy. Lew drives with one hand on the wheel, the other is in my lap and I play idly with his fingers until we’re back and the gravel crunches under the tires.

We wander slowly up to the back porch. The evening’s first stars are just beginning to peep down at us. The wicker basket dangle from one of my hands, he’s holding the other. We’re under Mrs. Miller’s watchful eye, I can see her peeking through the curtains. She comes out onto the porch, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Thank you for the car, Ma’am,” Lew says.

“You’re most welcome, Lewis,” she answers. I hide a small smile. She treats us like we’re children, but in a good-natured way, nothing overbearing or stifling. She would be horrified to know that Lew is married, amongst other things. She turns to me. “Mr. Miller is asleep, dear. He’s not feeling very well.”

She’s really telling me I need to come in soon and to be quiet doing it. She’d never be so blunt, though.

Lew tells us both good-night, and he throws a glance over his shoulder at me before he walks away.

“Clarissa, love, what are you doing? Go say good-night to your young man.” She winks at me and gives me a little shove. I trip down the steps and around the corner of the house.

That is where we have a slightly less proper good-night under a three-quarter moon and a star-strewn sky. And maybe, maybe for just a second, we are both seventeen again, there’s nothing but him and me, spring flowers in the air, starlight. It’s all very romantic and full of whispers and stolen kisses and I feel very young. If there were fireflies, I could be back in Illinois, at home. We used to catch them, my sister and I, and keep them in Mason jars on the window sill. I always got up to let mine out and I’d watch them scatter into the night to go wherever they would. Something so pretty shouldn’t be caged.


	5. Kisses {then a bit more. . .}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is so, so dirty and needlessly detailed, and that's after I toned it down.
> 
> I'm sorry. I swear I'm not some kind of deviant.

Kissing. That’s always how this starts. Kisses and cocktails and purple twilights that melt into diamond-strewn night skies. It was lazy, languid at first, his mouth on mine, warm and insistent. After hours of drinking and dancing, teasing and flirting, sitting in his lap, giggling, sneaking off into dark corners, I’m tired, but pleasantly so. I’m tipsy and pliant under his hands, in his arms. It was a lovely evening. I’d surprised him by even being there at all, showing up with my friends in a borrowed white dress. But now the dancing’s done and instead of going back with the other girls like I should be, I’m walking alone in the dark with Lew, going wherever he’s staying tonight. Well, ‘walking’ might be a bit of a stretch since we’re constantly stopping to kiss and caress and when we are moving it’s at more of a stumble.

We come across a parked Jeep and he leans me against it, shoving his tongue into my mouth, he nips at my neck and I swoon in his arms so I sag against him and he’s forced to hold me up. He reaches down to cup my ass and lifts me up to sit on the hood. He pushes my knees apart, stepping between my thighs so we’re flush against one another. I can’t help but to move, rubbing against him, and he’s so _warm_ in contrast to the night air. We’re both a bit more than a little drunk, pulling at each other, moaning and sighing into each other’s mouths. Even though I want him desperately, I know it can’t go much farther than this, yet anyway. We are outside, after all. It’s like being seventeen again, when the lines of what I could and could not do were hard and fast; but right now, that’s only adding fuel to the fire.

Then his hands start to wander. No longer at my back, but up and down my sides, at the edges of my breasts, the curve of the underside. Before long he’s cupping and kneading, and I’m letting him, more than letting him, wanting him to do it, the same way I let him, wanted him, to move his hand from my knee at the table, until it was under my dress, his fingers resting on my bare thigh over the top of my stocking, tracing little patterns. He finds my nipples through my dress, touching me until I can’t think of anything else. Even though it feels good, even though I feel the desire pooling between my legs, I push him away.

“Stop,” I half-heartedly tell him. “We can’t do this out here.” Am I protesting or complaining? I don’t know myself.

“Baby, there’s no one here to see,” he drawls, reaching for my breasts again, finding the nipples again, tightened into hard points. “Let me, just let me. Doesn’t it feel good?” He puts humid kisses to my throat and I stop caring, until he starts undoing the tiny pearl buttons at the front of my dress.

“Lew--”

“Shh, Rissy, s’okay, s’okay.” He sucks at my neck, and I sigh when he holds my wrists behind my back with one hand. “Just lemme see.” My dress is unbuttoned to the waist now, he pulls at my slip and my bra, exposing my breasts in the cool night air. I decide to just surrender to him, it feels too good, and it’s too hard to resist anyway.

My nipple is already peaky when his mouth finds it. He draws it between his lips, his teeth. There’s a needy longing between my thighs and it’s just the right side of too much tender friction at my breast. “You have no idea how good that feels,” I breathe, and he looks up at me, that one eyebrow raised. Maybe I blush, and I wish I could reach him with my hands, but I _can_ slide one stockinged foot up his thigh instead, nestling against him. He groans and suckles harder. His stubbled jaw is dark against my creamy breast in the moonlight. And then I gently pull him away, whispering “Please, please,” guiding him to the other side, that nipple ignored and throbbing. He gives me a little nip before starting to suckle there, and I squeal, holding him to me while his hand finds the other breast.

“ _You’re_ all het up.”

“Mm-hmm.”

His hand reaches under my skirt, trailing up my thigh to my panties. His fingers move up and down my folds, squeezing and pressing until my thighs are wide apart and I can’t keep my hips still. “You like that?” I only nod and moan. My dress is open to the waist and hiked up to my hips. ‘What about this?” His hand dips into my panties and he’s none-too-gentle, making me moan aloud. It almost hurts, but it feels good, too.

“Yeah?”

“Yes, oh God, yeah.” I don’t care anymore where we are or what he does, I only want him to keep going. I clutch him, kiss him with his hands crushed between my legs, still tugging. He tries to pull my panties down but they’re stuck under my garters. He goes to push the damp fabric aside, but I whisper in his ear, “Rip it, Lew, just rip it.”

He grunts and he does, throwing the tattered piece of lace to his feet. He’s got two fingers from each hand inside me, stretching my opening wide, playing with my delicate lips, thumb circling. I reach down for him, but he stops me and lays me back instead, and then his fingers are back inside me spreading and rubbing and teasing while I beg him, please, please, _please_.

And then there are voices. Drunk male voices coming from awfully close. Jesus, let me tell you, that sweet and honestly modest Midwestern girl I once was still exists, because even though I’ll do whatever Lew wants gladly, enthusiastically, no one is going to know about it, and certainly no one will ever see. He looks at me for one bare second, his eyes wide, before he bends to grab my shoes and a wool blanket from inside the Jeep. He scoops me up and slings me over his shoulder, my backside is hardly covered, cool night air on my bare flesh, between my legs. We’re lucky it’s so dark and that we were mostly in shadow. He half jogs out past the buildings into a field of tall grass, long enough to hide us if we sit.

There’s three of them, and I can only see them in profile. They all stop and laugh when they come to my abandoned panties. “Looks like someone’s having a good time.” One of them picks them up and takes them. A random man has my underwear stuffed in his pocket.

“I liked those ones,” I sigh.

“Me, too, but they were ruined anyway,” Lew whispers in my ear, “I’ll buy you new ones,” and I stifle a giggle. He spreads the blanket out and we lie down, kissing, loving, and his fingers slip into me again. I can reach him now, running my hand up and down the hard length of him. His fingers move in and out, so far inside until they can’t go any further. I let out a strangled cry and his fingers leave me empty.

“Oh God, I hurt you, shit, I’m sorry—”

But I grab his wrist pulling him back. “No, no. Come back, do it again. I liked it.” He does, softly, then harder, fingertips prodding, gently pressing at the opening, circling and teasing while I writhe and stroke him. Finally, finally, he moves to lap and suck at me, fingers still working all the way inside and I come completely undone with his hand over my mouth.

“Oh, my God, my God,” I gasp, my chest heaving, “You—Oh, God.”

“That was new.” he smirks and pets me where I’m swollen and sore.

“Uh-huh,” I nod, breathless. “No one’s ever done that…” I trail off, reaching for him again, his belt buckle and buttons, opening his flies and stroking until he’s panting. I lean toward him, drag my lips along it, cupping him, playing.

“I’ll go off in your mouth, Rissy. I wanna fuck, let’s just fuck.” So, I yank down his trousers and his shorts so they’re just under his ass. I’m sprawled out under him, lift my hips and he’s inside me with a low groan, thrusting while I grab his butt, bringing him as close to me as I can. He’s so far in, hitting that same spot over and over. My hands are splayed on his lower back, later there will be scratch marks there. Over me, his face tenses and his neck cords, and he tries to back away, but my legs around his waist hold him.

I mentally calculate dates and beg him. “Inside please? Please? I like the way it feels. So hot. I want you to fill me up and--”

“But--”

“It should be okay.”

And then I pull him down, kissing his neck, sucking his ear and nipping at it, whining and pushing back against him. When he comes, he pushes me right over the edge, too. He collapses on me, both of us sweetly exhausted.

I can’t help but to laugh when I open my eyes. His naked white ass is out in the moonlight, my poor dress is open and wrinkled and bunched around my waist. Lew’s hair sticks up in wild tufts and I know mine must be a mess. There’s nothing to do but tuck things in and do up buttons, using our hands to smooth our hair and the creases in our clothes. Once we’re done he looks a little the worse for wear, but I’m hopeless.

“I think maybe white wasn’t the best choice,” he deadpans. “But you looked beautiful earlier.”

“Oh, and now?”

“Gorgeous. Well-loved. I think the dress has seen better days, though.”

“I’m going to have to get it cleaned.” The blanket may have saved it from grass stains, but it’s dirty from the damn Jeep and completely, pathetically creased.

“Just tell ‘em you spilled something on it. Blame me. Say I spilled something on you.”

“Well, that,” I say primly, “wouldn’t be a lie. You spilled _something_ on me.” With that he pinches me and I squeal again and play at running away only because I know he’ll chase me. He gives me a messy kiss and puts his jacket around me, and we walk, for lack of a better word, eventually getting back to his. He fumbles with the door, opens it, takes a nip from his hip flask. There’s no one awake, the house is dark.  I gaze up at him and he looks down at me and smiles tenderly and cups my face. He tastes like whiskey.

“See, it’s your eyes, the way you look up at me with such rapt attention. It’s very flattering, actually.”

Before I can say anything silly, he scoops me up again, but this time like a groom would lift his bride. He carries me up the stairs and down the hall, but slowly using the wall for balance. The room he’s in is small but comfortable. He turns on the dim lamp and sets me back on my feet. The narrow bed is against the wall--it’s wide enough for two people, if they don’t mind sleeping close. It’s very domestic, getting ready for bed, using the bathroom, and finally getting undressed. I feel inexplicably shy, ridiculous, since I’ve just been practically naked in front of him, but this is different. He obviously does not feel the same way, already down to his underwear.

“Just sleep in that, here, c’mere.” So, I sit on the bed beside him, and he unhooks me, my garter belt, rolling down my stockings. He pulls my slip straps down and I bite my lip, look at my lap, my bra falls away from my breasts, and he looks but doesn’t touch, only covering me again gently, kissing my shoulder. “All ready?” I nod and crawl under the covers in my lacy slip. The mattress dips under his weight and he stretches out on his back and I fit myself against him. I feel safe, wedged between his warm body and the wall, this is cozy, in a bed, in a home, I haven’t done this in a long time.

My last thought before falling asleep is that I have no idea what I’m going to wear in the morning.

 

* * *

 

The sun is streaming through the window in the morning, it’s going to be a lovely, golden day. I wake to him playing with my breasts, tweaking my nipples, plucking and lightly twisting at them until they stand out stiff. His body is warm from sleep; he’s naked and hard, poking at my hip. He gives me a lazy smile and a kiss good morning first on my lips and then on my nipples, little pecks that turn into nibbles and suckling right through my slip, making it damp and leaving my nipples cold.

“Here, I’ll help you take that off.”

“You’re such a gentleman.” This earns me a lascivious grin and a raised eyebrow. I sit up and lift my arms to let him undress me and then I’m naked, too. There is no moonlight, no dim lamp, no soap bubbles, no clothes in the way, only the sun lighting up dust motes in the cool, clear morning air.

Lew sits cross-legged on the bed, his cock bobbing in front of him, before he absently strokes it. He grabs my hips and pulls me down so I’m lying in front of him, knees up and bent, feet in his lap.

“I want to look at you, now that we have time to play,” he says, gently pulling my legs apart until I’m spread out in front of him. My thighs are wide open, I’m exposed and vulnerable and ready for him. At first, he just traces the outside, tugs softly at hair. He pulls at my hips again, dragging me into his lap, my breasts sway, one leg on either side of his body.

His fingers brush up and down my seam and I sigh and tremble. He does not touch the taut little knot that’s desperate for his fingers.

“You’re so soft and pretty. Cute.”

“Gee, thanks,” I deadpan.

“Shh, now,” he presses a finger to my lips and I can smell myself. “No talking,” he tells me, “It looks pretty.” One finger is just barely inside me, “And it feels good,” I’m tender and sore after last night, his teasing is exquisite. Then the finger is gone, at his lips and inside his mouth. “Delicious.” I blush bright red, I can feel the heat in my cheeks; he just grins down at me. Both his hands are between my legs, rubbing, gathering my folds together and squeezing lightly.

“I’m gonna look at you. Ready?”

I nod at him and try to spread my thighs wider. I’m swollen and I want him, I whine when he pulls his hands away. His pupils are huge, our breathing is rapid and shallow, my pulse is racing when I shut my eyes in anticipation. He spreads me open and blows cool air on me. I moan while he plays, I’ve never felt so empty.

“Please, Lew, please, please …

“Please, what? Please this?” His fingertip ghosts over me once, then again, and a third time. My hips strain upwards when he takes his finger away. “Or please this?” That one lone finger slides into me, but then it’s gone, too. “‘Cause I wanna do this…” and with that he stretches my already sore flesh open until it aches, but it aches so nicely and leaves my small bundle of nerves throbbing. He teases and I give him open-mouthed groans. More fingers slide into me and I writhe while he watches. “D’you like that?”

“Mm-hmm, yeah.”

“Feels good?”

I bite my lip and nod. I’m flushed down to my chest, but so is he, my nipples dark and swollen and puckered so I touch them myself, pinching until it hurts and thinking of his hands and lips and teeth.

“Good girl, there’s a good girl,” he mutters, finally letting my folds close back together. “What about this, now?” Just the one digit back, but deeply this time, so far inside me that he finds that other small opening and then stroking it again, the way he did last night. Gently, then a bit harder, so it only borders on pain, his finger circling it, running over it until I let out a whine and he hesitates.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop, it’s so good.”

“Okay, shh.” He resumes, applying gentle pressure. I whimper when he prods at the opening and my hips buck. His hand is wet to the wrist, I’m dripping onto him. And finally, his other hand moves from my belly, his thumb circling and flicking until I come in his lap with one hands on me and one inside, and he only takes them away when I’m quiet and still.

He stretches out beside me. His hands are shaking. “Rissy?”

“Mm-mmm?” My little noise is a question.

“Rissy, please touch me. I need you.”

He’s leaking, too. I reach for him, taking his cock in my hand and stroking him while I look up at him through my eyelashes. I crawl closer to his lap and he’s still watching my face. Watching when I lick his cock, when I run my thumb the head, when I rub it on my breasts, spreading his fluid on my nipples. I reach between my own legs to gather my wetness, to rub on him, and I kiss it, lick it, take him in my mouth and down my throat, tasting both of us together. He leans back on his arms, not touching me at all. “D’you like that? Tasting yourself on my cock?” His voice is hoarse.

I’d nod if I could, giving him an agreeing moan instead and press my face into his wiry hair, letting him move the way he wants.

He gets up, pulls me to the side of the bed, my legs dangling before he spreads them wide and pulls them over his shoulders. I’m open, exposed, vulnerable and so sore that it’s beautifully, keenly, exquisite when he thrusts in.

He draws back a little, rubs the himself on the space between my opening and my backside. It feels good, but I panic a little, before I realize this is Lew and he wouldn’t hurt me, not for real, anyway. He plays, there’s some rubbing, friction, and his eyes are locked there, but when he pushes back inside it’s in my vagina. I squeeze my legs together and clench as hard as I can. That’s when he gasps aloud, fingers bite into me, my breasts swaying, both my legs over one of his shoulders, and his body is a vice. What he says would be completely, horribly offensive if we weren’t in bed--no one’s said anything like that about my bottom.

He collapses, kneeling between my legs, his face level with my body. He growls and then his mouth is on me. He must like the way we taste together, too.

 

* * *

 

 

A bit later, when all the sore pieces of me have settled from throbbing to a delicate ache, I look up at him, at the satisfied grin on his swollen lips. He looks down at me indulgently. It feels very late in the morning. He’s caught in a sunbeam, looking angelic.

“Where are you supposed to be right now?”

I tell him. I’m supposed to be sharing a room with three other girls and that’s where all my things are. We’d giggled and gossiped together when we got ready last night, all of us excited and happy. We were ready to dance and flirt, and maybe kiss a boy. Of course, Lise would only do so with her James, which everyone knows, and me with Lew, which everyone does not. I _had_ planned to go back, really, even Lise had, but, oh, well, maybe she’d had more self-control than I did.

“Listen, I’ll just go and get your bag. It’s not far. You stay here, wait for me.”

“Lewis, I can’t go anywhere. I don’t even have underwear.”

He grins at me and winks, going to dress and wash up in order to go fetch my things. The water runs in the bathroom, and I sink back into the sheets and pillows that smell like him, that are warm from the sun and from us.


	6. I am a Silly, Silly Girl

It was Lise who pulled me into another romm andtold me he'd been shot, after she heard about it third-hand. She’s the only one who knows that it’s not just dates and dancing, but also that I thought that maybe he loved me and that I loved him right back. She knows the other parts, too; girls do talk after all, and I had to tell someone. It wasn't like our little love affair was a secret exactly, but almost no one knew we were more than casual friends. I remember the sinking feeling, the world closing in around me, the blood rushing in my ears. We were in a supply room--it was antiseptic, sterile under harsh unforgiving light. It seemed like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. I almost fell and Lise caught me and held me up. I cried into her shoulder, thankful that it was her who told me, because I could cry, be heartbroken, terrified in front of her and she would know that he’s so much more than just someone I know, some boy I dance with and kiss.

Lise patted my back, pushed the hair back from my face. It struck me how gentle our hands can be, and yet they can be claws, too. I comfort my patients, but I hurt them, too, don’t I, sometimes even when I’m helping them? I let out a choking sob thinking of him being hurt, hating even the thought of him in pain, and Lise hugs me close. She told me to take a few minutes, to rest. I was dizzy and slack-jawed, but we were so busy and time to cry was a luxury we didn't have. I still had patients who needed attention, so after ten minutes of ragged sobbing, I wash my face and set my mouth and do my job. This afternoon I get the easiest, most rote tasks. That's what they do when you get bad news. That way you can still be useful and not dangerous. All the while I wait to hear more, or for him to be brought in, or to see someone who knows him, something. Anything but just endless waiting.

When I do see him, his back is to me. He'd walked in himself; he was standing, talking to someone, gesturing with his hands. When he turns around I see there's only a burn mark on his forehead and a grin on his face and my heart lurches; this could have been so much worse. But it isn't. He's filthy but whole and mostly unhurt. A scrape, a burn mark, spared from death by an inch. If that.

The metal pan I’m holding clatters to the floor, and then I'm running, knocking him back into a chair, climbing into his lap, straddling him in front of all these people, not caring one single damn iota. I rain fervent, desperate kisses on his forehead and cheeks before kissing him soundly on the mouth. He lets out a little bark of a laugh at the intensity of my reaction, and kisses me back, hands splayed on the small of my back. But, Jesus, I can't do this again. I can’t lose one more person who I love. My fingers flutter at his shoulders, making sure he's really, actually here. I don’t realize that I’m crying until he wipes the tears away.

The surgeon walks by, about to say something to me, and he shakes his head, eyebrows in his hair, looking at us from the sides of his eyes. He shakes his head like I'm some flighty girl who hasn't seen her boyfriend in a week, not a woman who’s already lost a husband, a woman who couldn’t bear to lose another man.

My dress is hiked up almost to my hips, bare legs flush against Lew's thighs. The position that I'm in is not quite…proper. I can feel the eyes on me, but I only bury my face in his neck. Kind of afraid to move now, I just let him hold me. I'm trying to stay as still as I can, because moving would only make this look worse.

"I guess the cat's out of the bag on this one," he says to no one in particular and I giggle madly into his throat.

And then there's Marion, trying to look stern, but her lips are pursed; she's trying not to smile. Relieved for me. "Clarissa, why don't you take your young man and go eat your lunch? We'll need you back in a bit."

I get up, smoothing my dress, eyes downcast, the very picture of modesty. Trying my best to keep my legs covered. There are catcalls and clapping when I finally stand up; I can tell I’m flushed crimson and there’s a wide grin plastered across Lew’s face. I take his hand and lead him down the hall, my head still bowed. We go into another mostly empty small room with an old cot and other equipment not currently in use. He lifts me up onto the counter, his body between my spread thighs. Lew nuzzles my breasts, but we're only kissing and holding. His mouth is warm, hands warm at my waist, and I'm so relieved and grateful that he's here.

My fingertips trace his eyebrows, ghost over the small burn mark, and I cup his face until he looks at me. I’ve seen his eyes bright and teasing, exhausted and hopeless, full of desire and full of Vat 69, but I’ve never seen them quite like this. A line by Robert Frost runs through my mind--lovely, dark, and deep. Right now, they’re brimming with emotion, too. We’re just gazing at one another and what we’re not saying fills the air. I haven’t said those words to anyone since the last time I said them to Johnny, but I can feel them behind my lips now. He’s looking right into me and I shut my eyes before he can see what I want to say and what I don’t dare to say in equal measure.

Lew’s arms come around me, holding me close, his heart beating against mine. His lips are soft, warm, and tender. Our kiss is searching and desperate, but sweet and loving all at once. All the while I’m gathered to him, enveloped safely in his arms.

I tug at his arm. "Come and lay down with me," I tell him, and he does. We end up twined together on the cot, my head pillowed on his shoulder. Maybe both of our hands wander a little, but for the most part he's only holding me close and I cry a bit. He kisses my tears away and I can taste the salt on his tongue. Before long, and definitely not long enough, there's a sharp knock on the door. Marion again.

"Clarissa, come on, now. Time to come back. We need you." We get up, straightening our clothes and tucking things back in. Neither one of us wants to let go, wants to stop kissing. But finally, he opens the door and we walk back down the hall. Out the door, down the steps, arm around me.

He kisses me good-bye out in the street, lingering, before rejoining his friends. And, oh, the raised eyebrows and snickers, boys being boys. I suppose I did make a spectacle of myself. I shake my head and smile faintly, and he shrugs, says "What? She's my girl." Lew drops me wink before he leaves and I go back in.

Now I can smile, pay attention, things are no longer falling from my grasp. I think of Lew and my lips quirk up.

“You’re either going home or you’ve got a sweetheart,” my patient says.

“Well, I’m definitely not going home,” I tell him, smiling.

“Must be a sweetheart, then.”

I nod, looking down, getting ready to change his bandages and clean his wounds.

“That guy you knocked into a chair and climbed into his lap?”

I’m mortified, really, but he’s teasing, and it’s good-natured and that makes all the difference. “Oh, did you see that? That’d be him.”

“Sweet-pea, everybody saw that. That guy over there? He said he’d almost get shot if it’d get him a pretty girl in his lap.”

I tut at him. “I don’t think I’d do that to anyone else, so you can tell your friend over there he needn’t put himself in danger on my account.”

The back and forth never stops. I understand, though. Also, it makes it easier somehow, when I know that what I’m doing hurts, if we can both ignore that. It lets everyone keep a little dignity. There’s nothing patronizing about it on my part, either. Like I said, it’s all good-natured, and if it isn’t I can be all business, too, when it’s necessary. Most of the time an impassive face and raised eyebrows do the trick. It’s not usually much of an issue; patients tend to be grateful. Today, though, I’m simply too happy and too relieved to be anything but completely, utterly cheerful, but hungry. I hadn’t ever eaten my lunch, you see.


	7. Ammonia

I float in the bathtub, which is chipped and dingy. The feet are intricately scrolled, lion’s feet. It would have been very handsome once. It’s immaculately clean, but no longer beautiful. Only my head, shoulders, and knees are above the water, the rest of me submerged. The water itself is almost milky from my soap, the kind I would have turned my nose up to at home. I would have said it was men’s soap, something my father would use to wash away dirt and sweat. Nothing like the lemon- or flower-scented bars my mother used. She was a lady, and I wanted to be one, too. Not fussy, mind you, just feminine.

Now I don’t care. Soap is soap, and I just want to be clean. I’m starting to prune, but it feels so good under the warmer-than-tepid water that I’m just not ready to get out yet. I shut my eyes and turn my face against the cool cast iron, and relax.

The door opens, and I would have startled, except I already know it’s Lew--I can recognize his footfalls. I expect him to sit by the bathtub and talk to me, or maybe perch on the closed toilet.

He doesn’t do either, though, and I watch him through half-slitted eyes as he bellies up to said toilet, opens his flies, and lets out a stream of urine. He talks to me the whole time as if this is the most natural thing in the world. I wonder if he ever did this in front of his wife. I decide that he probably didn’t. She seems like the kind of girl who would find it disgusting, not see it as a small intimacy. It’s not as if I _want_ to see him use the toilet, but I don’t exactly _mind_ , either. I am a nurse, though, so maybe that accounts for some of the difference.

The acrid smell of his piss hangs in the air, all ammonia, making me wrinkle my nose. When he turns around and catches my expression, he scoffs, letting out a breath of faint amusement and buckling his belt. I just shake my head, eyes shut, as if saying ‘look what I put up with,’ although we both know it’s only for show. There’s no “putting up” about it, the truth is that I revel in it.

“Hey, you want me to get your back?”

“That’d be nice.” I sit up and lean forward so he can reach, the water conceals anything interesting. He rolls up his sleeves, and I watch his forearms and hands while he removes his watch. It’s nice, soothing to feel his hands on me. They’re affectionate, efficient, exactly where they should be, and not doing anything untoward at all. I’ve already washed, but how well can one really reach her own back? It’s the tenderness I’m enjoying, the sweetness that’s the other side of the sarcasm.

“You should really lock the door, Rissy.” He leers at me, but it’s so exaggerated that it only makes me giggle.

“Why? To keep out strange men who want to use the toilet? Mostly it’s just us girls here, and we have to share.” This is true, there’s just the one bathroom at the end of the hall for us.

“You never know.” The leer is gone, replaced by something else. “I want you safe. As you can be, anyway.”

“Lew, I ‘m fine. I’m fine, really.” He’s no longer washing, just rubbing my back. “Besides, I want you safe, too. Mostly from yourself.” I’m teasing, but serious, too. I won’t be sanctimonious about it, it’s just a fact, and hell, we’ve all got our issues. Nevertheless, his jaw tightens, so I do the only thing I can think of. I don’t pay any attention to the fact that I’m getting his clothes all wet, pulling him to me and putting a warm kiss on his mouth. He resists at first, his back rigid, but the tension flows out and he embraces me. Dark water stains bloom on his shirt.

“Listen, I’m not asking you to do anything today, or tomorrow, or next week, or even next year. Just eventually, you now. That’s all I’m going to say. We don’t even have to talk about it.” I can’t see him from where I am, my face pressed into his neck, but I can feel him nod above me.

Eventually he settles back and leans against the wall, sitting on one hip and turned toward me. I mirror his position, so we’re curled toward each other, him on the tile, me in the tub. He’s telling me a story, something he did at Yale, pranks boys play. I tell him about how we teased one another when I was at school. How I’d be getting ready for my dates with Johnny, or getting ready for bed after, and what my room-mates would say. Girls are no better than boys, really, when no one is looking.

There’s a minute that we’re silent, just looking at each other. This bathroom might be dingy, but the sunlight pouring through the window is crystalline, clean and pure and warm. A stray sunbeam catches Lew’s face, lighting him up, and he almost looks like an angel, only I know better than that.

“Let’s go to Paris,” he says quietly. “Just you and me. I’ll take you somewhere nice and we can have the whole weekend.”

“I’d love that,” I say, thinking, I love _you_ , but those are words that won’t leave my mouth for some time yet.

“All right, good. I’ll make arrangements.” He grins at me, happy. It’s the small things, isn’t it? You ask a question, someone answers yes. Someone who will listen to your stories, no matter how care-worn they get, simply because they love the sound of your voice. Someone will wash your back, or who will couch hard truths in gentle embraces. Someone who only wants to change the things about you that hurt you, because they want you to be _well_ , not _different_.

In that moment, when we’re gazing at each other, silently saying all the things we can’t say aloud quite yet--shit like ‘I think I might be falling in love with you,’ ‘I think I might want to be with you forever,’ and ‘Please, please be safe. Don’t die, don’t get hurt, I can’t do that again.’}--and that’s when the door opens again and poor Beatrice steps in.

Now, we’re nurses, right? We’re used to seeing naked people, and, as Dr. Watney says, “parts is parts.” We girls also live together here, sharing the one bathroom, so we’ve all seen each other in various states of undress. But Beatrice is young and sweet and comparatively innocent and she does not expect to find me naked in the bathroom with a man. She stops short and her eyes go wide, darting around as if she’s not sure where to look. She makes an unbecoming squawking sound that echoes before she turns and nearly runs back down the hall, her footsteps retreating.

Lew and I let out peals of laughter. We weren’t even doing anything for once. I sigh and pull the plug from the drain. Lew dries me, but he’s all business, efficient but none-too-gentle, the way you would dry yourself.

He watches me while I dress. It’s like a reverse strip-tease, until I’m properly covered, panties and brassière, stockings and slip, dress and shoes. He just watches from the arm chair. The Andrews sisters are on the radio. Once I’ve put on my lipstick, I go to him, standing between his knees,

It’s only then that he touches me, running his hand up the back of my thigh. He finds the bare skin above my stocking and takes my lipstick from my hand. Lew traces a heart there, filling it in, crimson stark against creamy skin that never sees the sun. He smooths my dress back down and kisses my hip, his head bowed at my waist. For a long moment, neither one of us moves until I tangle my hand I his hair, which needs to be cut. It’s falling over his forehead.

I extricate myself and kneel in front of him, loosen his tie, unbutton his collar, and push his shirt and undershirt out of my way. Carefully, carefully putting a lipstick kiss just under his collarbone before covering it up just as carefully, leaving him marked where no one will see it.

I tip my face up to his, biting my lip, and he kisses me, too, just to the right side of my mouth, to avoid getting any red smudges on his face.

“Hey, kitten, do you wanna…” he drawls, “go get some coffee?”

“And cake?”

“If there’s any cake to be had, I’ll buy it for you.” He swats at me and I giggle, darting away so he can chase me down the hall and down the stairs into the sunshine.

Off we go, to the little sidewalk café down the street. It’s only a few blocks away. When we first get out onto the street, he takes my hand; there’s no one out to see. When he lets go, it’s only reluctantly, but then he takes it back and our fingers intertwine. I play at skipping, feeling little-girl happy, safe, claimed.

There is coffee for him and _chocolat chaud_ for me, and there is cake. It’s all very proper, at least until he tips his flask into his coffee cup. Lew looks at me out of the corner of his eye, I give him a tiny, puckered smile and wrinkle my nose at him and he winks back.

All those small intimacies add up, sharing laughter, washing my back, watching me dress, and yes, even using the toilet. It’s all those small things that make something real. Anyone can make grand gestures and pretty speeches. So much can be said without words, in glances and gestures and expressions; if you find someone who speaks to you that way, you hold on to them.


	8. Dans la Salle de Bain, Room 503

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Salle de bain' is 'bathroom' in French.
> 
> The room number isn't random either, 5 is the number off marriage and it's the sum of the female 2 and the male 3. Three symbolizes the union of two parts that create a new whole. So many things come in three's: beginning, middle, end; birth, life, death; earth, water, heaven. (And it's simply my favorite number.) Zero isn't just a placeholder, it's also the starting point and it contains everything. I did pick and chose from different sources, but, hey, it fit my purposes.

We’re in the bathroom of our hotel room. This place is nice enough, or maybe not nice enough, that they didn't look at us sideways when Lew checked us in. I don't know if they pretended not to notice or if they just didn't care that there aren't rings on our fingers. It's lovely here, it's been a wonderful night so far.

The tub is huge and I’ve filled it with hot water. I’m waiting for him, wearing nothing but one of his white t-shirts. Lew comes in already completely naked. We’ve been out dancing, spent hours talking and laughing, holding each other close, but not touching too much because you there’s only so much that’s acceptable in public even if this is France. I wonder for a minute at the fact that I’m spending a weekend in Paris, dining and dancing with this beautiful man, when I grew up in Illinois milking _cows_. It just took throwing the whole world into turmoil to get me here. Honestly, I’m more than a little tipsy and I’m having trouble concentrating on anything more than what I want to do. Lew is drunk and happy and climbing into his bath. And naked. I bite my bottom lip and giggle, watching him from the floor at the side of the tub.

I’m kneeling there and I’m brazenly staring at what he’s got between his thighs and at his ass as he steps around me. He shakes his behind at me, “D’you see something you like, Rissy?”

“Mm-hmm,” I answer him, “I see something I like a _lot_.”

   He sits down too hard in the bath and water sloshes over the side getting the hem of my shirt wet so it sticks to me. His grin is wide and silly as he leers at me, his wet hand reaches out to touch my cheek. It fumbles down to my collarbone down to my breast, leaving a little trail of droplets. I smack his hand away, playing, and he pouts at me. “Tell me what you like so much, baby.” He slurs, but only just a little.

“You.”

“Me?”

I nod at him, little-girl solemn, my eyes wide and innocent. “I like everything about you. I like all the…pieces…of you.” I’m giggling again. “And-and I’m gonna wash you.”

“Okay, then,” he stretches out under the water, “have at me.” His head is resting on the edge of the clawfoot tub, his face turned towards me but his eyes are shut. I lean forward to kiss him. He tastes faintly like whiskey and cigarettes, but his lips are warm and soft. I’m leaning precariously over the tub’s side, covering his neck in tiny kisses up his jawline to his ear. Lew tries to pull me farther towards him, but I get up instead and he pouts at me again.

I’m torn between the desperate urge to climb onto his body and wanting to hold him in my heart where nothing can hurt him. Crossing the room on slightly unsteady legs, I go to gather up the bath things. He’s watching me when I look over my shoulder, dark eyes intense under his brows. We’ve never said it, not once, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. I know that as much as I want to keep him safe, he would do anything he could to keep me out of harm’s way. We exist in a bubble right now--this bathroom is clean and white and unbroken, pristine. There’s steam coming from the bathwater and it’s warm in here, almost tropical.

I’m going to bathe him, his lean, muscular body that’s whole and unhurt. I wonder, just for a second, exactly how many wounded men I’ve washed and bandaged, how many soldiers’ blood has run over my fingers, how many hands I’ve held, kisses I’ve pressed to foreheads before the light leaves their eyes for the last time. I shake my head to stop that train of thought, and I offer him a tiny, sad smile. “Ready?”

“Yes, nurse,” he answers me, but he’s serious, too. He’s letting me take care of him, letting himself be vulnerable in front of me. I kneel and brush the hair off his forehead before I shampoo his hair, rubbing his scalp with my fingertips. Rinsing, careful of his eyes. Next, I wipe the soapy washcloth across one hand, I scrub each finger, careful, up his arm, and then the other side, too. We’re not talking, somber, just watching one another. Across his shoulders, down his chest, where I can feel his heartbeat, then his belly. He leans forward so I can wash his back. The only sound is the water moving around him. Then his feet, each toe individually, up his calves, knees, thighs, hips. He lets me do this, lets me venerate his body. And I take him in my hand, stroking gently, but longer than is strictly necessary, feeling him grow hard. He swallows, and reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. My hands slip farther down between his thighs, caressing what I find there.

I whisper to him, “Lift up for me, Lew,” and he does. He’s blushing, or maybe just flushed from either the hot water or the alcohol, I don’t know which. His backside, then, and he’s embarrassed a little, I think, but I’m thorough, only because I was telling the truth before, I like what I see a lot. The hot water and cocktails can take the blame for the fact that I’m shamelessly fondling his ass with both hands now, my face pressed into his neck, lips at his throat. Because I can and he can’t stop me, I run one finger between his cheeks and tease just a little, wondering what he’ll do. What he does is inhale sharply through his teeth and groan, his hips bucking up involuntarily. He firmly moves my hands away, and I grin at him widely. Suddenly it seems deliciously funny to me, but it’s okay, he’s laughing, too while he shakes his head at me. “All done,” I tell him, “all clean…Except, maybe, for right here…” My voice trails off and my hands dip into the water again finding his hard flesh. The bathwater splashes around us, my movements are bolder than they were before.

His arms come around me, bringing me further out over the water, pressing my face to his chest where I leave open mouthed kisses while I touch him. My breasts dip into the hot water; the lip of the claw foot tub is cold against me. His t-shirt has ridden up over my hips, Lew cups my bare ass and pulls me into the tub with him. I’m under the water--my tipsy mind realizes this tub is deep--and then I’m sitting up to face him, giggling again. “Rissy, why don’t you take that thing off,” he starts, but then his gaze travels down my body and he finishes, “No, leave it on.” The shirt covers everything but conceals nothing now that it’s wet. It’s molded to my body, clinging to my breasts, my areolae showing through, my nipples standing out aching to be touched. His hands cup me, his thumbs circle my nipples, and then he gives me the pinches and tugs I adore, finally leaning his body forward to suckle and nibble through the sodden fabric.

I try to scramble into his lap, wanting to straddle his hips and lower myself onto him, but his hands on my shoulders stop me. Lightly, he presses me back to the side of the tub, then his hands hook under my knees and he spreads my thighs wide, draping my legs over the tub’s edges. Now it’s my turn to be vulnerable and exposed as he gathers the wet cotton onto my stomach so he can look down at me, swollen with my desire for him and open slightly. I can feel the warm water seeping into me. My head falls back and I wait, anticipating his hands and fingers, but instead he takes my wrist, leading it between my thighs. “Show me,” he breathes, “Let me see.”

Now it’s me blushing, eyes shut tight so I don’t have to look at him. No one has ever, ever seen me do this. I take a deep breath and sigh, letting my hands fall between my legs, and I spread myself open for him, so he can see inside. I cradle one breast lightly, grasping my nipple in my fingertips, my other hand under the water, caressing my folds while he watches. My hips are moving and I can hear Lew talking over my soft moans and gasps; he murmurs that I’m a good girl, his good girl, telling me to keep going, keep touching. He’s breathing heavily and I see his hands are busy, too. The water is swirling around us as he kneels between my spread legs, so far apart that they’re aching, staring down at me. I’ve never felt so naked in all my life. He touches me lightly, tracing my cleft, and stills my hands and brings them both to his lips. “Bath time's done, kitten,” and he’s climbing out of the tub and helping me out, too. He drags the wet shirt off my body and it falls to the floor. Lew dries me, playing at it and letting his fingers wander.

“Your turn.” His skin is clean and fresh and warm under my hands while I towel him off from his shoulders to his feet, end up crouching in front of him, head resting against his side. My hands come to grasp his hips, my lips leave small wet kisses until I take him in my mouth. His low moans and the taste of him is intoxicating. His fingers are tangled in my hair, chest rising and falling rapidly, his mouth is open. I’m happy, giddy even, to make him feel good, but oh, I want him. Wetness gathers on my thighs, and the empty longing between them is almost overwhelming.

Suddenly the world is moving around me, but it’s only Lew lifting me to carry me like a bride to our bed. He lays me down caressing my body, my breasts, my nipples, sides and belly, between my legs. He opens me, touches the delicate folds there and the bundle of nerves, gently, with only his fingertips. His head dips almost reverently and he puts a soft kiss there, lingering, brushing against me until I’m quivering under him. He comes to rest beside me, kissing my forehead; his face is open, sweet, earnest. Our mouths meet in messy, sloppy kisses. My breasts are crushed to his chest and his arms are around me holding me close. My legs lock around his waist, bringing my body up against his.

Our foreheads are pressed together. This is sweet, so sweet; tears pool at the corners of my eyes, and he kisses them away. His mouth travels down my jaw, my throat, until he’s suckling me, his mouth hot and greedy on my skin. “Please, please, please,” begging him. I feel him and my knees fall apart and my hips lift in a silent offering, placing him at my entrance. He teases, pushes just barely inside then up a little to graze the taut knot there. I bite my lip and shift my body but my eyes are open when he slides into me. The way he stretches me is intensely exquisite. His eyes are dark chocolate, pupils dilated, and a ghost of the smirk I love so much plays around his lips.

His pace is slow and deliberate; he only drops my gaze to close his eyes and kiss me. He props himself back up on his arms and looks down at where our bodies join, watching himself thrust so deep into me that he’s brushing my cervix. His stubble is bristly under my hands. I tense and lean up so that I’m flush to his body, my cheek against his and my mouth near his seashell of an ear. “Lew,” I murmur, “It’s you, just you. Just your hands, on me, in me, just your mouth. ‘Cause I’m yours, just yours, to do what you will with.” I’m murmuring nonsense to him while he pushes in and out of me, telling him I want him, need him, to fill me up, and he does, he does. I'm talking about more than my body when I whisper that he makes me feel so good, he makes everything else stop hurting, that I’ve never, ever felt this way. Here I am, crying again. What I’m feeling is too exquisite; I don’t have the words.

“Shh, shh.” His lips tickle my ear as he pushes me back onto the mattress, lying right on top of me. There’s no space between us. “I know, baby, I know. You’re mine, okay? Mine. You’re mine and I l--” He swallows what he was about to say, that word, because neither us will admit that’s what this is, like not saying that one damn word will make a difference. His kisses are deep and fierce; I’m not the only one trying to say something without speaking. He clutches me to him and we rock together his controlled rhythm becoming feral, almost brutal. His hips are slamming into mine hard enough to leave bruises. It’s too much, too much, and I cling to him, my fingers splayed on his lower back, my body rigid, my mouth open while I moan until I’m screaming for him, calling his name while fireworks explode behind my eyelids. Somewhere in the middle of all that, his thrusts become erratic, frantic, completely unrestrained.  His whole body tenses and he curses into my neck until his hips stop bucking and he shudders, filling me with searing heat.

He collapses on me and we lay there, tangled and spent. I’m melting, boneless, completely and utterly satisfied. I let out a contented sigh and one corner of his mouth and one eyebrow lift; I giggle quietly at his expression. I can barely make out anything but his face in the half light.

He whispers to me, “I do, you know,” talking about what he wouldn't, couldn't say before. I only nod in reply. I don’t trust myself to say anything at all. He kisses me tenderly, sweetly. “Good night, Rissa. Sleep with me, just like this.”

His body is so warm. “Mmm, Lew,” I say in a tiny voice, “That’s all I want.” I don’t say the rest aloud, he’s all I want, I want to love him and make love with him and be his for whatever time I have. For now, falling asleep nestled close to him, being in the same space, is both more than enough and not enough at all.


	9. Dance Hall Honey

It’s rather strange, really, if you think about it, how many parties there are. It’s for morale, I understand. After all, it’s better to laugh than cry. It's harder to dwell on things when there’s always something to do. Maybe that’s why dancing has become so acrobatic; all that motion makes it impossible to think about anything but what your body’s doing. Of course, once you have a moment to sit, it all comes rushing back unless there’s another way to stave it off.  
Tonight is a farewell party, it’s probably a good-bye forever, no more returning to England. It’s good-bye to the Millers for Lise and me, too. We’ll have one last Saturday night of music and dancing, food and drink.  
My dress is the same muted ruby-colored one I wore all summer. The white one hasn’t ever been the same since the tryst Lew and I had in a summer field. I’m down to one last pair of stockings. Lew could get me more; he offers and I refuse, but I may have to rethink that. These are the perks of having a lover with a knack for finding things and the means to pay for them. It’s certainly convenient, but doesn’t really matter to me. I won’t lie, it does make things easier, but I would love him even if he didn’t have a cent to his name. Right now, he’s dancing with a girl I don’t know, moving with an easy grace and she’s laughing at whatever he’s just said. I can’t hear him, of course, but I can feel a smile curl my lips just the same.  
His hand is on her waist, the other clasping one of hers. I am not jealous because I know he’ll come back to me when the song is over. Besides, the way he’s looking at this girl is not the way he looks at me. Sure enough, when the last notes fade away, she asks him a question, and he shakes his head, but he smiles at her.  
Lew is charming when he comes to get me, kissing my hand before he briefly presses his lips to mine. He’s the perfect knight errant, playing at courtly love, and I get to be the princess.  
Later, we’re in a dark corner, watching the crowd of soldiers and girls, and I lean back against him. We’re both pleasantly tired, slightly sweaty and damp around the edges. I can smell the alcohol coming out of his pores and the smoke wafting from his clothes. Actually, I’ll never see whiskey again without thinking of Lew. It’s not all bad either; it was fun for a long time, before it stopped being any fun at all.)  
This dance is one of those functions that is not optional. Nearly everyone is to make at least a token appearance for important people and photographers. The photographs will be in the papers and the newsreels will play before the movies, it’ll be good for morale for the folks back home, seeing laughing young men and pretty girls. I can understand that, too. Just because I understand that doesn’t mean it’s easy to bear; it’s so contrived, almost manipulative. This is a momentary truth; the more accurate reality is something no one wants to see.  
That’s what I’m thinking when a warm hand moves over my backside, there’s a brief, cool draft, and the hand is under my dress. “Do you want me?” He huffs against the nape of my neck, and then he says something that makes me blush furiously. His whispering is hoarse in my ear with no trace of a slur despite the alcohol on his breath. It is also delectably, deliberately lecherous. Maybe we’re not so much a knight and a princess as a stable boy and a kitchen maid.  
I bite my lip and try to look stern. His hand withdraws, but Lew is not done being playfully lewd. He is handsome in such a clean-cut American way, with his eyes crinkled at the corners and a lopsided smile; it’s no wonder he can get away with so much.  
“I want you. Do you want to feel?” There is not a trace of a blush on his face. His voice might be pitched low enough so that no one else can hear and we are positioned in such a way that no one can see exactly what is happening. Lew might be shameless, but he wouldn’t embarrass me.  
“I can’t do that here!”  
“Not with your hands, silly girl.” Lew pulls my hips back and then I stifle a giggle. Lew can be so polished, with beautiful, practiced manners--he always knows what fork to use--and then he can be like a fourteen-year-old boy. He takes a half-step back and his arms come around me. This is just comfortable, warm, no touching of inappropriate parts.  
I twist to look up at him. “I want you.”  
“I want you, too.” They might be the same words as before, but now we mean something completely different. “C’mon, let’s go outside. It’s roasting in here.” He tugs at his collar.  
The air is much cooler outdoors. We wander aimlessly for a few minutes, not talking. The night air is delicious; the street lamps are haloed in a thin fog that is quickly dissipating even as we watch. Lew’s fingers are twined with mine, I’m not sure if I’m feeling the pulse in his palm or if I’m just pretending I can.  
Our path takes us past a small park, complete with lush grass, benches, and a wrought iron fence, very quaint, picturesque. There’s even a gurgling fountain looming pale and ghostly inside. The season’s last roses are still blooming, reluctant to let go of summer. We come to a stop in front of a bush of red tea roses, the trembling blossoms are as vivid as fresh blood. The petals are like velvet; I nearly expect them to stain my fingertips.  
“I’ve never liked red flowers. I almost hate them, really.”  
“I know.” He leans against the fence, the spikes and curlicues throwing shadows on his face. “That’s why I always get you white ones. They suit you better.” Then he leans to kiss me, but it’s just a kiss and nothing more. A kiss that’s like a first kiss, not your very first kiss ever, but the first time you kiss someone new, when all you can think about is how it’ll feel, but you don’t want to seem too eager. Just a kiss, a meeting of lips, but I still have gooseflesh on my arms when Lew cups my elbows.  
“I’d give you my jacket, but I left it in there.”  
“That’s alright.”  
“We’ll go back in a minute.” We settle on a bench. The wooden slats creak softly as they bow slightly under our combined weight.  
“Let’s don’t.” Lew raises his arm and I slide into the space beneath it. It’s warmer here, where I can feel the ebb and flow of his breathing and listen to the faint thunder of his heart. “Let’s just stay right here.”  
There we sit, holding hands and with my head on his shoulder. Cool air lifts strands of my hair, but I’m not cold.  
“You look beautiful tonight.”  
“You, too.” He shakes his head and grins down at me.  
“Silly.” His finger swipes at my nose.   
“Lew--” I start, then falter.  
“What is it?” Lew’s lighter strikes and the flame flares briefly.  
“It’s just, I want to talk to you. About in there.” I tilt my head back towards the lights and music.  
He groans and shrugs. “I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what I was thinking. I won’t--”  
“I know what you were thinking, but that’s not really what’s bothering me.” It isn’t either. I’ve never once felt that Lew disrespected me. He treats me like a lady. Whatever we do is between us and mutually enjoyable. But just lately, I’m beginning to wonder if it’s too much, if we’re pushing past some invisible line, and that’s what I’m worried about. It’s a difficult concept to put into words. I want him to know that it’s him, that I wouldn’t be so wanton with anyone else. “It’s--oh God--Lew, do you think we’ve just--I mean, I was a good girl, Lew.”  
He touches my hair, tracing the rolls I carefully pinned up. Mrs. Miller helped me with my hair, and then she gave dabs of perfume to Lise and me. My friend isn’t here tonight, she and her James wanted to be alone. He’s leaving himself in a few days and she won’t be able to see him, no one can begrudge them an evening alone. Lew traces my earlobe. “You’re still a good girl.” His pause is pregnant; his expression is concerned. “I haven’t ever made you do anything you didn’t want to, have I?”  
“No, of course not. I just don’t want you to think that I’m--I wouldn’t be that way with anyone else. Just you.”  
He heaves a sigh from deep in his chest. “Say things shook out a little different. Say none of this ever happened,” he gestures at his uniform and then he continues, “and I saw you a book store or a coffee shop, or coming out of a theater, or walking across campus--”  
“You’re assuming we would have been at the same school.”  
He shoots me a withering glance. “You’re smart. They took me, they’d take you.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, we’d both be unattached. I would have asked you out, I would have kissed you good-night that first day instead of wasting so much time. I would have taken you on actual damn dates.”  
“What makes you think I would have said yes?”  
“Oh, you’d still be completely and utterly charmed by me.” The smirk is adorable, but even so, I shake my head slowly in feigned exaggeration. This gesture is only for show and he knows it. He tips my chin up with one finger. “And I’d be smitten with you.”  
“I like this story.” I also like his voice and the cyclical rise and fall of his chest. It’s soothing, almost hypnotic.  
“Good, I’m glad. And one night, after an appropriate amount of time had passed,” he continues, speaking softly into my ear, “I would take you to dinner, somewhere nice. Candles and violins, or maybe a piano; that kind of place. There would be wine and something chocolate for dessert, and after all that you’d come home with me and I’d take you to bed. And I’d make it special for you, flowers and champagne and all that.”  
“That sounds nice.”  
“Doesn’t it? No complications, just us. It’s too bad reality got in the way.” His palm is warm on my cheek. “You know how I feel about you, right?”  
“Yes,” I whisper, nodding up at him. “I--" There are so many things I could say, but the words just don’t come. Instead, I feel like I could cry, my eyes are heavy with it. The tears don’t come, either.  
“I know.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “It wasn’t ever about getting you into bed. So be as dirty as you want to be; I don’t think any less of you for it. I like it.”  
The glance I give him is somewhere between amused and exasperated. He chuckles.  
“That’s not what I meant. Of course I like it, but you trust me, and that’s the best part. If it makes you feel any better, we can confine our activities to more conventional locations and…methods.” His eyes are dancing puckishly.  
“That will not be necessary.”  
“No?”  
“Uh-uh.” Lew smothers my giggles with his mouth. His lips and tongue and hands are searching. There’s a neediness there that I understand, because I feel it, too. The need to be loved, wanted, welcomed, understood.  
The stars are very bright. Lew takes my hand and we wander through the little park. Someone has abandoned a blanket in the grass. Lew stretches out on it and I pillow my head on his belly. He points out the constellations hanging above us and I listen, rapt. We lie there together under the night sky on a forgotten blanket. His voice washes over me, sometimes our fingers are interlaced, or our hands are on each other’s bodies in easy casual intimacy. It’s only when he feels gooseflesh on my arm that Lew sits up.  
“Are you cold? Do you want to go back in?”  
“We probably should.”  
“Oh, fuck ‘should,’ but we can eat and have some libations, and I’ll dance with you right up close for the rest of the night. Just you, and no more funny business.”  
“I’d like that.”  
“Well, then let’s go.”  
That’s exactly what we do. We eat the food and drink the drinks and smile for the camera; Lew twirls me and holds me close as the music calls for and there is no more untoward behavior on either one of our parts.  
I get my kiss good-night on the back porch amid the last of the late summer flowers.  
“Crème brûlée,” I whisper against his lips.  
“What?”  
“Our dessert. It would’ve been crème brûlée.”  
“Oh, I see,” he whispers back between kisses. “Sweet and scorching.”  
Summer is giving way to fall, and the night is over. There will be a mass exodus over the next few days, and once we’re back in France, we won’t be staying with families, we’ll be living with each other wherever we go. The nurses, that is, not Lew and me. But for one last night, Lew and I are saying good-night on Mr. and Mrs. Miller’s back porch. We need to behave ourselves and I cannot invite him inside, not after midnight when no one else is awake, and my surrogate parents are sleeping upstairs.  
“I’ll see you as soon as I can.”  
“Try to be careful.”  
“Of course. You, too. Stay safe for me.”  
“I will.”  
There’s a last kiss, and one after that, and another one follows. Finally, there is a last kiss that is the last kiss, and Lew lets go of me with his hands but not his eyes. He opens the door and I slip inside, walking backwards so I can look at him just a little bit longer. The door shuts and I’m looking at him through the glass pane, which is perfectly clear, but he looks subtly distorted, as if he’s under water. The glass is very old and thick. Tiny bubbles are trapped inside.  
The curtain swings back and I can see nothing but his silhouette. He doesn’t move until I turn the deadbolt. Once the lock slides home, Lew strides quickly down the steps and into the night, but not before I see him wipe a hand across his eyes.  
I sat in the darkened kitchen for a long time, not wanting to see Lise’s and my room stripped bare of our personal belongings. When Lise came home, we went up the stairs together, so neither one of us had to cry alone.


	10. Alleyways & Aisles

it’s evening. The sun is about to go down and I can finally get a moment to myself, so I go outside to see the sky and smell fresh air. I need a rest. Maybe I give away more of myself away than I should, trying to be a mother, or a sister, or a sweetheart, when there’s no one else to do it. Some of the other nurses certainly don’t, they do their jobs but they keep their hearts. Still, I have to; I would like to think whoever was there for my husband did the same. If holding a hand, pressing a kiss to a forehead or just to the side of a mouth, or whispering little love words can make the end easier, less scary, for someone else’s son, brother, husband, or beau, there’s no reason not to do it. Staying cheerful, joking, teasing, playing at flirting when what I really want to do is scream or sob in desperation is much harder. No one knows what it costs me to give these men what they want, what they need. They deserve it. No one will ever know. Besides, every single one of them is Johnny. And now every single one of them is Lew, too.

My nerves are stretched so tight that I don’t believe I’m actually seeing him at first. He’s the best sight in the world, even if he’s dirty and unshaven and his OD’s are all wrinkled. He’s walking down the street towards the building we’re using as a hospital, talking to his friends. He’s gesturing and grinning lopsidedly, and then he sees me. There’s a little bolt of electricity when our eyes meet. He puts a hand to Dick’s shoulder, says something, and then he’s jogging towards me and I’m coming down the steps to meet him.

The kiss he gives me is too long to be strictly proper out here in the street but neither one of us cares. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him. His hands run over my face, neck, and shoulders, and I do the same to him, stopping at his waist. We’re making sure we’re both all here, whole, and unhurt, before he hugs me to him tightly. People walk around us while he kisses me. His mouth is soft and warm and I don't ever want to move.

Someone clears his throat behind me and I reluctantly pull away. “Hi, Rissa,” Dick says to me, his eyes crinkling. He’s amused. I kiss him too, but chastely at the corner of his mouth. He turns to Lew. “We’ve got two hours. I won't waste your time.” He walks off into the crowd of people, tossing “Two hours, Nix!” over his shoulder before he turns the corner and is gone. Lew shakes his head and leads me off the sidewalk, his hand at the small of my back.

“I never really believe you’re okay until I see you again,” I tell him.

“I’m here now. You have me.”

“For a couple hours.” I know I sound bitter. It’s not long enough, but then it never is.

“That just means,” he says, nibbling my ear, “there’s no time to waste.”

We’ve nowhere to go and it’s getting dark, so I take him into the alley away from the crowded sidewalk so we can be alone. There’s a tiny courtyard back here that no one ever uses and no light but the stars. He backs me up to the wall and leans over me. His kisses are more heated here where there’s no one to see us and his hands wander, too. We grasp at one another, clutching, trying to get as close as we can. He smells like outside, a little musky, and very much like him. I don’t care that he’s dirty and he must not care that I’m not exactly clean and smelling like roses either. It’s been too long and we need each other too much.

His hands slide under my bottom and he hauls me up so I can wrap my legs around his waist. He’s between my open thighs; I can feel him hard against me even through all our layers of clothes. I’m trying desperately to create friction between us but it’s not enough. His stubble scrapes my cheek as I plead into his ear. “Please, I just want you, need you inside me. That’s as close as we can possibly be. Please. Take me, Lew, right here.” A strangled little cry falls from my lips. “I’ll be your whore, but only yours.”

“Oh fuck, Sweetheart, yes. You’re mine, but I’m yours, too.” One finger pushes my panties aside and slides into me where I’m warm and wet and wanting. “You’re mine,” against my neck, muffled by kisses. “Not a whore, that’s not what this is.” He fumbles with his buttons and then he’s inside me, all the way, as far as he can go. I’m pinned between him and the wall, my arms wound around his shoulders. His thrusts are frantic and his hands guide my hips to force me into his rhythm. He fills me up again and again until the aching emptiness is gone and all that’s left in the world is the two of us, this moment, together.

This is hurried and none-to-gentle, and incredibly intense, but for all that it’s still making love, even if it is happening in a public courtyard behind a makeshift hospital. My fingers dig into his shoulders and I moan into his mouth, trying to keep quiet, and then, oh God, there’s a million tiny stars and I melt into him. He’s clutches me and his hips slam into mine until his whole body goes rigid. He’s groaning, cursing, calling my name into my neck, and then it’s over. For a long moment, we stay like that, crushed together with his body inside mine. His breathing is quick and ragged; I can feel his heart beating. My face is pressed in the space between his shoulder and his neck; back pressed against the rough brick of the wall and Lew holds me up, supporting me while my breath comes in pants.

Eventually, my boots slide back down to the grass. We’re both fixing our clothes, not looking at one another. Lew laughs darkly and I’m giggling, too. I was a virgin bride on my wedding day, now I’m in an alley pushed against a building with my lover. My legs are shaking and he has to put an arm around me just so I can walk. I try to look like I haven't just been well and thoroughly fucked when we get back to the street.

“D’you remember when you told me you couldn’t do this in some alley?”

“That was when I still thought you were sweet and innocent, Rissy.” He takes my hand, leading me back out of the alley. “Now I know you only look that way.”

“That’s only because you corrupted me,” I say, playing at looking petulant.

“Couldn’t help it. The way you blushed, and your freckles. Did me in.” He pushes my lower lip back in with his finger. “Don’t pout. You liked being corrupted. You’d want me to corrupt you every day.”

For the first time, I feel a stab of jealousy for his wife. She gets his name and his child, and eventually--God willing--he’ll go home to her and she _will_ have him every day. I’m only borrowing the sweetness and the sarcasm and the love that rightfully belong to someone else. I decide to think about it later. Time is too precious to waste now. Still, what I’m feeling must show on my face because his smile fades and he follows my gaze. There’s a tiny grey stone church right across the street from where we’re standing. It’s beautiful, out of a story book, but I’m looking at it without seeing it until he starts talking.

He speaks in an undertone so close to my ear that I can feel his breath. “Clarissa, I’d take you there right now if I could.” There’s a beat of silence in which he frowns or winces as if he’s hurt. “In fact, c’mon.” He pulls me through the fresh night air. Even though we were only gone from the street a half of an hour at most, it’s nearly entirely dark now. He pulls the heavy wooden door open for me and we step through together. It’s cool and damp and dimly lit inside, and completely empty. Candle flames throw shadows on the walls; our boots echo on the stone floor. I follow him through the knave into the church proper. Two lit tapers stand on the altar. There’s no one else here. I can hear my heart.

His voice is low when he turns to face me and takes my hands. “I’m so glad I found you today. Needed to see you. Need you.” A corner of his mouth lifts, then his face turns serious. “Any obligations I have--” he sighs heavily, interrupting himself. “I’ll give you whatever I can, Clarissa, for however long I can. That’s as much as I can give you.”

What I say comes out as barely more than a whisper, “Then I’m yours, for as long as you want me, Lewis.”

“That’ll be a long goddamn time, then.”

His kisses are deep and bruising. The kind of kisses that leave you feeling like you’ve been claimed. And, oh, I have been. His name is written all over my skin, through my body, etched into my organs and bones; little bits of him are swimming inside me.

These aren’t church kisses. They’re bedroom-at-midnight kisses, take-you-as-mine-outside-under-the-stars-and-bind-your-soul-to-mine-with-reckless-abandon kisses. They’re vows from a man who’s never even told me he loves me. In those words, anyway. He sends me little notes, he teases me, kisses me until I can’t think of anything or anyone but him, and that’s all well and good, but it’s the way he looks at me and talks to me that make me absolutely certain that the words he never says are the truth. And right here, now, tonight, there’s no question of what we are to one another anymore, even if there’s no name for it. There’s only the sad fact that this must be temporary, no matter what happens.

“I wish that I’d met you at home,” I say. “I wish that I met you before.” Before I was married, before he was married, before the world exploded--I mean all three. Maybe this is disloyal to Johnny, who loved me. The truth is that I never would have left him, but I think I would have fallen in love with Lew anyway, and loved him for all the rest of my days. And being that I’m ruled by my heart, I can’t say that I wouldn’t be here, in the dark, with Lew.

“But you wouldn’t be here now. I wouldn’t let you. You’d be at home, Rissa. I’d want you safe.”

“You’d be here, though. Maybe right here in this spot, with some cute little French thing.” Shit, why do I say such stupid, awful things? I’m ruining this.

He shakes his head. “I don’t think that would happen if I’d married you.”

I wonder what he means for a moment, if he means he wouldn’t be carrying on with other girls or if he wouldn’t be kissing them in empty candlelit churches. Lew’s right, I’m not dewy-eyed and innocent anymore, after all, I’m here with another woman’s husband. So many wives and girlfriends back home that won’t ever know, maybe because they don’t want to know, that it’s so easy to find comfort with someone else and then turn around to write love letters home. It happens all the time.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes wonder if Lew has other girls. I think it’s safe to say, though, that I’m the only one in his heart, if not the only one in his bed. Under the circumstances, we’re in, I can accept that. So, I look up at him in the dark, raise one eyebrow, and say, “No, you’d better not. If I was your wife, I’d come over here and kill you myself, if you were kissing French girls in front of altars in churches in candlelight.”

“Oh, I only do that with American nurses,” he tells me. “Actually, just the one, ever. Just the one girl in the church in front of the altar in the candlelight.” His eyes are deep black pools in the semi-darkness. He gets down on one knee in front of me and my heart stops in my chest. “I’d ask you a question right now if I could,” he says.

Bittersweet tears well in my eyes. “I’d tell you yes.” This is the worst best minute of my life; I’m dizzy with it. It’s not a real proposal, it can’t be, but what he’s giving me are the most precious things he has, his love and his time.

My hands twine in his hair and he presses his face to my belly, which suddenly growls loudly. Traitorous body, ruining a beautiful moment. Then, we both look up; someone is coming into the church from the rectory, asking loudly if anyone’s there, the French echoing and distorted. Lew says, “Oh, shit,” and then we’re running back down the aisle and out of the church, hand in hand and laughing. All that’s missing is the recessional. It would have been Ode to Joy.

“I should feed you. We’ve haven’t got much time before I have to go.” It starts to rain and he holds me close to his side while we walk. There’s a dark, smokey, little pub close by. We can eat quickly there, so he’s not late. “I meant what I said in there,” he starts and then looks away, avoiding my eyes, “and I want to tell you, it really is only the one girl. It’s been that way for a while. Maybe not exactly since the very beginning, but--”

“You don’t have to--” I interrupt, but I’m not sure how to end my sentence. “You’re here with me now. The rest doesn’t matter.”

“You might be too forgiving.”

“No, what I am is a hypocrite.” The irony of what I said earlier wasn’t lost on me, or on him, either. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up right before you leave. It’s just that--”

“No, it’s okay. This is complicated. But, Jesus, I would pick you.” He stops and grabs my arm. “What you said? How you wish we’d met before? Me, too. It doesn’t make what we’re doing--what I’m doing--right, but it was so rushed when I married her. I think we were all caught up in it. You know how it was, everything was so urgent. We’re different people now, she and I didn’t really talk when I was at home, and we almost never write, and--” he trails off. “I can just be with you. You don’t want to change one damn thing about me.”

“I don’t. Not one thing. You’re perfectly imperfect.” I smile up at him. “I’d know you anywhere. The day we met, when you turned around, oh, so handsome, but it was in your eyes.” I shrug. “You knew me.”

“Oh, see, you’re still sweet. I thought you were adorable, you looked so defenseless. I wanted to find you and protect you. I asked around about you. Everyone told me to leave you alone.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I had warnings about you.” I did, too. “I’m glad you didn’t listen.”

“Me, too. They told me you were this fragile, delicate, innocent girl.” One of his eyebrows raises. “They may have been a bit mistaken. I think it’s your doe eyes.”

“Well, maybe you just saw beyond that. Besides who the hell ever heard of a fragile, delicate, innocent nurse?”

“Not I, cute girl.” His grin is wide and full of dark humor when he pauses to open the door for me. The pub is crowded and noisy and warm. We barely have enough time to eat anything but the food is hot and served quickly enough that we’re back out in the street with just enough time to walk instead of run.

We’re holding hands when we leave, quiet, just walking. His arm comes around my shoulder and mine goes around his waist. Before too long, Lew is guiding me down the sidewalk because I can’t see. My face is pressed into his chest and I’m trying hard not to cry. That’s the thing, you can’t cry in front of them, you wait until they’re gone. That way they remember a smile and not tears. Our time is over and it’s time for him to go.

He kisses me again--more bedroom kisses, on the street in front of anyone who might be watching. We’re still beyond caring. He squeezes me so tightly my ribs hurt and I can’t hold him close enough, either. His hand finds my breast and leaves a light, little pinch there. Oh, I want him, need him, love him desperately. I’d let him take me here on the ground if he wanted to. Then, “I should go,” and I nod, and there’s one last kiss. A church kiss, a bridal kiss. His lips are still warm and soft and he’s so vibrantly alive. The thought that that he could be snuffed out almost makes me sob. Where would it go, whatever it is that makes him himself and not anyone else? He seems too vital, too full of life for that to possibly happen.

“I’ll see you soon, Rissa,” he tells me. “I’ll come and find you.”

“As soon as you can, Lew,” and I smile for him, trying to make it pretty and real. My lips only quiver a little. “I’ll be waiting for you.” I bury my face in his chest and hold him close, wishing I could hear his heart but there are too many layers of clothing in the way.

He whispers into my ear, “I do.”

“Me, too,” I murmur back.

That’s it. There’s another word that we never say besides those three important ones. It’s always ‘good-night’ or ‘I’ll see you soon’ or some other variation. He gives me that lopsided smile that I’ve loved since the very first time I saw it, and then he turns and walks away. He squares his shoulders and the walk turns into a jog. Soon it’s hard to tell which one is him. Then he’s suddenly coming back towards me, taking both of my hands in one of his. “Listen, Rissy, I didn’t even get married in a church. Whatever else I may or may not have done, you are the only one who--” Whatever else he’s about to say is lost because I throw myself into his arms and it’s me kissing him and cupping his face. When I lower myself down from my tiptoes, he gives me a tiny peck on the tip of my nose. I smile up at him; he smiles down at me. There’s nothing else that needs to be said.

We stand there, still, until someone calls to him and he turns, raising a hand. There’s a brush of his mouth at my temple, his hand squeezes mine, his palm at my cheek, and he’s gone. He melts into the flurry of activity, I stay at the edge, slowly sinking into a bench in front of a war memorial. Finally, the line of Jeeps and trucks is moving and they’re leaving.

I watch until this little town square is almost empty. Just me and other onlookers, young girls and old men. It’s too quiet now. Funny how someone can be right next to you one minute and gone the next. I love him. I love him so much it’s a physical pain. My chest hurts. I can’t bear it, but I must. We all must. There is no alternative.

I turn around and walk back to the hospital under friendly stars. The building was a school in another lifetime. If I cry all the way there, no one notices. The girls I work with give me smiles and sympathetic looks--this is sweet and sour and sad all at once. It’s that way for anyone with a sweetheart. To love a soldier is to be constantly on edge, always worried that the worst will happen; to have no one makes an already desperate situation desolate.

If my eyes are red, my patients don’t say anything. We smile and laugh and flirt madly, except for one. He’s only nineteen, still a boy, and he’s scared, hurt, and far from home.  For all that he’s still a boy, he’s a man, too. After all, he’s been through his training, he’s fought, faced death and killed other men. He’s both too young and too old for nineteen. When I have time, I sit with him and hold his hand, smile, ask questions and tell my own amusing little stories. After a long while, his eyes fall closed and his breathing evens out; he’s fallen asleep.

That young man’s face is neither waxy nor healthy against his pillow, he’s merely resting, healing so he can fight another day. That’s what we’re all doing now. I’m tired, exhausted and heartsick, I want my bed, to sleep and to forget everything but the sweetest part. I want the church, I want the candles, I want the recessional, I want Lewis Nixon. What I have right now is an aching heart and a job to do, and of course, the worry and fear that are my almost-constant companions.

I get up and go to the next man.


	11. Questions and Answers

“So, I have a question for you.”

“What is it?” I hardly look up, I’m busy rolling bandages. We reuse everything we can, so these have been cleaned and dried, and now they will be wound around new men and new wounds. There’s never enough of anything, or rather of anything we need, and sometimes there’s too much of things we don’t. But anyway, I’m busy and Lew is lounging against the countertop and watching me when he’s not looking at his hands fiddling with his lighter. “What do you need?”

“I feel slightly ridiculous about this, Rissy, especially after the other night, but I need to--”

“What?” Something in his voice makes my hands drop onto the pile of cotton strips and I finally turn my face up to look at him. I have so much to do--wind the bandages, take the burrs off the needles, powder and wrap the rubber gloves. And yet, some things cannot wait.

“It’s just that--when we were in that church? Rissy, I meant what I said. It’s just you and me, right? I mean, you’re my girl.”

“Of course I am.” My eyes search out his. A stray sunbeam lights up the dust motes floating between us. Lew’s chest rises and falls; he could be in the movies, clean for once even if he is in OD’s and not a dress uniform. He shifts to lean towards me, and the sunlight slants across his eyes. The rich brown is shot with gold and my heart beats faster.

“I’m done dancing around it, Rissy. You’ve got me, lock, stock, and barrel. So this is it, you and me, until all this is over, and then--” His hand waves in a loose gesture as his voice trails off. It’s dark in here, the windows are boarded up for the most part, the light falls in slants from between chinks in the boards. This was a convent before, but the nuns have long since gone.

He’s giving me what he can. And maybe this _is_ slightly ridiculous after he told me he’d ask me to marry him, but here it is in words and I don’t care if it’s ridiculous or not.

I don’t know what will happen, either, but it doesn’t seem like that really matters right now. Not now, when Lew’s standing so close to me that I can feel the warmth of his body, not when his voice is low in the gloom, not when his eyes are shut and he’s cupping my face. Nobody should be able to kiss like this. It makes a girl weak in the knees, makes reason and good judgement fly out the window, makes it very easy to forget every single thing except Lew’s lips and his hands on my waist.

Lise bustles in with a crate of supplies and snorts to find us in an embrace. She mutters in melodic French and lifts one eyebrow at me. My hands are flat on Lew’s chest and I push away from him, but his hands clasped behind my waist only allow me to move so far. We grin at each other, and I’d feel foolish, but Lew’s smile is so wide that it looks as though it might split his face.

“She should be working.” Each word is punctuated by Lise’s finger poking into my shoulder blade. “So should you.” She pokes Lew, too, just once, in his chest. That’s her final stamp of approval, that she would play with him, too. She throws me a wink over her shoulder and sets her box down on the countertop. Glass bottles clink gently inside. “You can put these away, too, when you are done canoodling.” Lise whirls and flounces out, kicking her feet.

I shake my head and tip my face up towards Lew. “She’s nuts.” I can feel my smile soften as I gaze up at him.

“So are you.”

“About you.”

“And in general,” he teases.

“You’re no better than I am,” I counter.

“No, I’m worse.” One corner of his mouth turns up, and a slight, mischievous smirk appears. He pulls me closer, bringing my arms behind my back and holding them there so I’m leaning against him, no space left between us. “Give me a kiss, honey.” As if I need any encouragement in that area.

At length, he lets me go, and I look down and bite my lip.

“I want you.”

“Lew!”

“No, I mean--well, I want you, yeah, but what I’m saying is that I want _you.”_

This time it’s me pulling him in, burying my face in his neck where the pulse is slow and steady and all I can smell is him. I inhale deeply and a content little moan escapes my throat, making him laugh. He hugs me, wrapping me in his arms, and I giggle, too.

“That’s it then,” he whispers into my hair.

“That’s it,” I agree. My lips graze the soft skin of his neck and an involuntary shiver runs through him. I let out a little huff of air--I must have tickled him and he jerks away from me.

“Lew, does that make me your girlfriend or your mistress?” The word leaves a sour taste in my mouth, but if that’s what I am, it’s what I am. His hands reach up to cup my face, tuck an errant lock of hair behind my ear.

“It makes you mine. This isn’t like that.” He looks at me, his eyes deepening. His lips are poised as if he’s about to say something and I briefly wonder if I’m about to hear those all-important three little words. That doesn’t happen, though. Instead he nods at me wordlessly and I nod back. This is alright because I know what it means. Those words are coming, and I think they’re coming soon. It’s there, it’s in everything he says and does and the way he looks at me. I can wait for the words.

* * *

 

It’s absurd maybe, that we’re both so hesitant about one tiny sentence of one-syllable words. Three words, eight letters, seven if you don’t count the second ‘O.’ And yet, I _am_ hesitant to give myself up completely. I’ve done that before and it almost ended me when Johnny died. Nothing is certain now and the way I love Lew is so much deeper--God, that makes me feel awful--than anything I ever felt for anyone else. I thought Johnny was the love of my life; I did and maybe he would have been. There’s no way to know.

And, Lew, well, I think he’s afraid to get hurt, that he’s afraid to be vulnerable. He’s used to people cozening to him, wanting things or favors he can do for them. He knows that I wouldn’t do that, but I think that is what happened with Kathy, to some extent. She saw the “Nixon” more than the “Lew.” He wanted more from her than she had to give, but to be fair, I don’t think he gave her very much, either. I think it was easier for him, less risky to avoid any possibility of rejection. After all, it’s impossible for someone to fall out of love with you if they were never in love with you in the first place.

I feel almost sorry for her sometimes. I know they don’t write, I know it was a hasty marriage, I know she has a son with him, and I know she’s very pretty. I am conflicted, I am, but what I pity her most for is that she didn’t see what I do in Lew, everything that lies behind the name and the charm and the sarcasm. Lord knows I do; I want every piece of him that he’ll give me for as long as I have him.


	12. Respite

It’s very late but I can still hear men moving and talking. It’s loud here, but I suppose that’s true anywhere there’s a large group of young men and no girls. Well, almost no girls. I’m here, after all, and I doubt I’m the only female who has been half-smuggled in while everyone else turns a blind eye. The snickers only come after you leave the room. Boys.

I can see Lew’s face in the dim starlight. There’s no moon tonight. We’re tangled up together with our bare skin touching. His body is still resting between my thighs, his head covering one breast, his hand covering the other. He plays with my nipple absently; our desire and urgency are spent. It’s safe here in his arms where I can feel his weight on top of me, blanketing me and keeping me warm. His hair is soft and clean from the bath we had before. It was tepid at best, and rushed, but all the sweeter because it was tacitly forbidden. We’d filled the bathroom with soap bubbles and the sort of dirty liquid laughter that leads to other things, which it definitely did. Which is why now the bedroom smells faintly of soap and us. I’m so tired, so drowsy. I let out a little sigh, turn my cheek to the pillow, and close my eyes. My arm rests on his shoulder, pulling him closer to hold him against my heart while we sleep. He nuzzles between my breasts, leaves a kiss there, and then suckles, but so softly it’s more like the ghost of a feeling. He sighs then, and rests his face back against my chest.

“Rissa,” he says, so low it’s hard to hear, “I love you.” I’ve never heard those words from his mouth until right now. His skin looks like silver in the star-lit room, his eyes are dark pools under his brows, and there’s no trace of his usual sarcasm or cynicism on his face.

I whisper back I love him, too, and I can feel him smile against my skin. I haven’t said that to anyone in so long, not since the last time I said it to my poor husband before he left and didn’t come back. It’s dangerous to love someone here, to give one person so much of yourself when he could be taken from you at any moment. But it also seems like a sin waste time when there’s no guarantee you’ll see tomorrow, either. It’s bittersweet to just surrender to my heart and just finally tell him, my lover, what is only the truth. “I love you so much,” it sounds like a prayer, “and you love me, too.”

“I do,” he answers, “and you love me.”

“I do,” I say, trying to make a little joke, but his face is solemn for just a moment before he gives me a wide grin and raised eyebrow. He exhales in amusement, but his face is tender. It’s not a joke, maybe, not really, to either of us, then. He shifts beside me, moving to cradle me in his arms.

“Good night, Rissy.” His lips tickle my ear.

“Good night,” I murmur, burying my face in his neck so I can smell him as I fall asleep. It’s warm, safe, and quiet here, and I’m more at peace than I’ve been in a long time, not having to fight with myself anymore. Love is a gift, a minor miracle, even in the best of times, here and now it’s a beacon.

We both sleep easily and peacefully until the morning.


	13. About last night…

That next morning, I wake up all at once. The bed is still narrow and lumpy, it’s also incredibly warm because Lew is wrapped around me. His eyes are hardly open and his hand is on my lower back. It ghosts up and down, making me shiver, and I nestle closer to him. I fit comfortably against his side, in the crook of his arm. The pulse in his throat is steady, it moves the chain for his dog tags, a metronome measuring time in heartbeats.

“Good morning, Rissy.” His voice is raspy with sleep. “Love you.” It sounds different, in the morning. I think it’s easier to lie at night. Not that I thought he was lying, not at all. It’s just easier to get swept up under the moon and the stars than it is under the sun. Hearing him say it in the morning feels more real, more substantial, somehow.

“Mmm, I love _you_.” It feels different to say it, too.

“No, _I_ love _you_.” He kisses the tip of my nose. I giggle and reach up to kiss his mouth. I can’t contain my smiles but he can’t either. “I love this little bit of you,” he whispers and he leaves an open-mouthed kiss on my elbow. “And I love this piece of you right here,” his mouth grazes my collarbone. He burrows into my neck and whispers “And I love it here.”

“I love you, Lew.” He rolls his eyes and pinches me while I laugh at my own little rhyme. We tussle under our blankets, rolling over each other. We play, wrestling and tickling, until I’m pinned under him, and then very quietly he says it again and I answer him. The whole length of his body is pressed into me; his weight is heavy and warm. I look up at him--he’s above me, leaning on his elbows and his dark hair falls over his forehead--and I remember our spring picnic. I thought he might love me then, and I’ve been sure of it for some time, but it’s a relief to finally say the words--and to hear them back.

This isn’t any kind of ideal setting, it’s no Paris park or candle-lit dinner, or even under an old English oak and a technicolor sunset, but it still is because it’s where we are. Even if it’s someone’s musty spare room, even if the morning sun is wan and reluctant, this, this right here, is the most beautiful morning I can remember. I’m with Lew, and he loves me and I love him, and right now, the rest doesn’t matter.

Now that I’ve said it, it’s really hard to stop. His head is still buried in my neck and I whisper, “Well, I love you here,” and I caress his shoulder, “and here,” as my fingers play along his ribs--he lets out a small laugh and squirms, I’ve tickled him--“and let’s not forget this spot here,” at his naked ass, “but mostly right here.” My hand is on his chest when I leave little kisses on his eyelids and his nose before I find his lips.

And for all that we’re naked--neither one of us is wearing a stitch of clothes--this stays sweet, almost innocent, but still far from chaste. No wandering fingers or wanton words, just a very close and tender embrace.

Was it Hemingway who wrote ‘We were together. I forget the rest’? No, no, it was Walt Whitman, and that’s not quite the line, either. No matter, I was with Lewis and I forgot the whole rest of the world and everything in it on that ugly morning. For a few minutes, anyway.

We whisper it back and forth--that one very short and sweet sentence, not the quote--then say it a bit louder, but not too much so. Until finally the words stop making sense and become nothing more than a string of syllables interrupted by laughter. It’s ridiculous to repeat any one sentence over so many times, except maybe that one. That one you should say as much as you can.

When my face is pressed into his shoulder, when both my senses and my heart are full of him. I tell him, “I just want to scream it out.”

“Well, don’t, _ma bichette_ ,” and every word is punctuated with tiny kisses. “You aren’t even supposed to be here.”

“I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.” I bite my lip and his eyes sparkle down at me.

“God, no, we couldn’t have that.” And with that, he draws the covers over us, so we’re plunged into the dirty half-light, and still it’s just a tangle of limbs, warmth with no heat.

That’s the way we are, all tangled up together and only whispering; the only release is letting the words out, when there’s a knock at the door. It’s quick, perfunctory, just a rap of knuckles. The door opens just the slightest bit, but it opens away from us, so even though we’re peeking out from under our blanket, we can’t see who it is and he can’t see us.

“Nix? Nix, we gotta go. In about fifteen minutes. So you better be downstairs. Alone.” There’s a pause, and then, “Good morning, Rissa.”

Quietly, quietly, we both chant, “Good morning, Dick,” and the door shuts on a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh.

And then it’s a mad scramble to get dressed and tidied up. One of my socks is missing, it’s nowhere, and you cannot, _cannot_ , wear boots without socks. Wordlessly, Lew hands me a pair of his, and for some reason, I give him my lonely one.

My sister knits them and sends them to me. God love her, but they’re always a bit irregular. I wear them even so. I love her and they’re from home. It makes me feel closer somehow, like we’re still a part of each other’s lives, like I can carry a piece of her with me. But anyway, I pull on Lew’s too-big Army socks and he throws my stray one in with the rest of his.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s got me outside in the damp, tepid morning. My hair is barely tamed, but all my buttons are neatly done; he’s a bit rumpled but his hair is short enough that it can’t be too much of a mess.

Right now, I could be--improbably but still possibly--just stopping to say good morning on my way to where ever it is that I’m going. He kisses me on that beautifully dingy morning--there are muddy puddles full of oil-slick rainbows everywhere--and that good-bye kiss is dirtier than anything we just did in his borrowed bed, this morning or last night.

His stubble rasps against my cheek--no time for him to shave this morning--and he murmurs those three small words humidly in my ear for the last time this morning. I say them back, looking up at him through my lashes.

For one bare second, he grins nakedly at me and I know I would do anything, anything, to keep him safe. My heart is a tiny caged bird fluttering in my chest. They took canaries into the mines, you know. Birds the color of sunshine with bright black jewels of eyes, fragile and hollow boned. They saved miners from poisoned air with their own deaths. Think about that, that a creature so ornamental in nature could save a man.

But whatever I see in Lewis’s eyes that morning, there’s no danger and no warning either, only love. He’s my lover, in the truest and purest sense of the word.

All this only took a second, but, Jesus, that’s when I knew, I think, that things might somehow work out in our favor.

Lew gives my shoulder a little shove, playful, light, and then he says it in words. “Get, you.” I let out a lilting little laugh over my shoulder, neatly stepping away from his swatting hand. He’s still got the ghost of his grin on his face when he glances at his watch and turns to walk back inside, quickly and with purpose, all economy of movement. A soldier again, not a lover, but still, always, my sweetheart.

It takes me maybe fifteen or twenty minutes to get back to the room I share with Lise. We’re still together and still as thick as thieves. She doesn’t even look up when I come into the room.

“Good morning, _chère_. We will be busy today.” She grins at my slyly. “ _Mauvaise fille_.”

“That I may or may not be,” I say, “but Lew says he loves me.”

“ _Chère_ , anyone with eyes could have told you that.” Despite her dismissive words, her eyes crinkle up at the corners and she takes my arm.

We start our day--surgery, surgery, surgery, changing bandages then bedpans, medications, wind one shroud and then another, flirt, persuade, cajole. When we do talk, it’s only about procedures and supplies and how to improvise for what we don’t have. But there’s familiarity and comfort in that, too, in our routine that’s not a routine because every day is different.

There’s so much we don’t need to say aloud anymore. She loves me, too. She saw me after Johnny, and she sees me now with Lew, she knows she doesn’t have to worry about me in the same way anymore. “You have life in you again,” she says. Of course, we all always worry, we’d be crazy not to. She just doesn’t have to worry that I’ll destroy myself.

And as for the rest, we’ve come to know each other so well that expressions and gestures can stand in for words. I can tell when she’s really laughing and when she’s only laughing so she won’t cry. I know that she gets almost murderously angry at the pure waste of all this, the waste of life and health. She doesn’t gladly suffer fools or rules she considers stupid, but I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so compassionate or brave. And yet, she’s not perfect, either. I know when to follow her out on to the roof and when not to, when she wants to share the cigarette and when she needs to smoke it alone furiously.

That day, the day after Lew told me he loved me, there wasn’t any of that. We had enough of what we needed, things for the most part went smoothly, and even the deaths were a mercy, as they sometimes are. We had more successes than failures and that’s a victory. So we were--maybe not happy--but not angry or frustrated. Sometimes that is enough.

I can’t tell you how many times I had to pull my socks up that day.

 

* * *

 

 

And my stray sock? I found it much later, on the right side of the Atlantic. The ribbing was still crooked and the heel was still frayed. It was still tucked away with Lew’s socks, too, only in a drawer instead of a footlocker. Its mate remained lost, probably somewhere among tangled sheets and blankets or in a dark corner under the bed. We never found it, but then neither of us ever really looked for it either.


	14. Caught, Again

He runs his fingers through the mess he left in the curls between my thighs, then dips inside making me sigh. I’m swollen, tender there, but his touching is sweet and gentle now that we’re done and sated. Lew gives me lazy, languid kisses. My nipples are soft, sore.

“Open,” he says and I spread my legs. He lets out an amused breath. “I hope it’s not that easy for everyone.”

I smile with my eyes shut. “Mmm, no, just you.”

“That’s good.” He writes his name on my thigh. ‘Nix.’ Back inside, all the way this time but slow, deliberate. ‘Lew’ on the other leg, he traces the letters on my inner thigh so high up that his hand brushes against me. “There, now you’re mine,” he tells me.

“Oh, yes, yours,” I murmur, “but I already was, Lew.” His hand between my legs, cupping me, giving me soft little squeezes, pressing the folds together. Again, again, again. Lightly until he grazes that small knot, so over-sensitive that it hurts and I move my hips back but his hand follows only squeezing again, his palm against me. Caressing underside of my breast, I reach to touch him, rubbing the head of his cock until he hisses through his teeth. Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s sore.

“I guess I deserved that.” He touches me again, but this time I only turn over and nestle into him, moving my hand to his hip, rubbing my thumb in little circles. Tired now, content. His hand ghosts over my back, shoulder to waist, then over my backside and between my legs again. “Can’t keep my fingers off of you.” It’s lazy and soothing where I’m tender flesh.

“That feels nice,” I tell him, “I want--“

And then there’s a quick, perfunctory knock at the door and it opens before Lew can say anything or even pull the sheets and blankets over us. There we are, naked and frozen, his fingers buried in me, and Dick is in the doorway, blushing scarlet. He turns on his heel and shuts the door, but not before I see his horrified expression. And suddenly we, Lew and I, are both laughing uncontrollably.

“This has to stop happening. He needs to _wait_ after he knocks.”

I nod in agreement, tears running from the corners of my eyes. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d caught us the first time. It had been in the morning, we were trying to be rushed, quiet. It was just about to get very, very good when Dick pulled back the curtain to the little sleeping alcove without any kind of warning. Lew was kneeling between my legs which were spread wide open, his cock pushed all the way in. I twisted my face away and covered my bare breasts and Lew’s hand clapped to the place where his body entered mine, but not before Dick got an eyeful, I’m sure. The thing is, we were both almost there, and neither one of us could stop _moving_ , so we were essentially fucking right in front of him. I just kept my eyes screwed tightly shut and my head turned until I heard the curtain run back again. I remember that Lew gave me a small, sharp pinch right there before circling, circling, circling, and then we were both being loud, Dick be damned. If he couldn’t knock, we weren’t going to spare him our noise.

Breakfast was a lovely affair that morning. Not awkward _at all_.

 

* * *

 

 

Anyway, it’s time to get up. We climb out of the bed, and Lew dries me with the sheet carefully, leaving his handiwork in place. And then it’s finding stray socks and underwear, pulling on clothes, doing each other's buttons. I leave his collar open, pressing a kiss into the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse under my lips. He holds me close against him, and I think he’s going to cup my breast again, but his hand settles over my heart instead. “Mine,” he whispers into my hair, then “Love you so goddamn much, you crazy girl.”

“I love you, too,” I whisper back, “ _Je t’aime tellement_.” Sticky wetness in my panties. I remember another weekend, in Paris. Dancing and cocktails on Friday night, and then we didn't leave the room again until Sunday for lunch. Breakfast in bed, room-service lunch on the balcony, him in only his shorts and dog tags, me wrapped in a sheet. And dinner? Dinner we had to order twice because it grew cold the first time while we had dessert.

We’re decent again, all dressed, hair combed, the hectic flush faded away. You wouldn't even know that we’d indulged in an afternoon romp but for the mussed-up bed, all tangled sheets and blankets, and the smell that hangs in the air. It smells like sex in here, like us. I open the window to let the air in.

Lew gives me one more kiss before I fix my lipstick. I can see him watching me in the mirror. “I like knowing,” he drawls, “that underneath your dress, you're covered in me.”

God help me, I like it, too.

He hands me my muguet, my sweetheart’s token, and I hold it to my nose. It seems like such a long time ago now that we saw them growing at the side of some English field, and I made some passing remark that lilies of the valley are my favorite flower. He’s never forgotten and they show up at odd little moments. Nosegays delivered, bouquets when he meets me, sprigs left by empty bottles of Vat 69 after nights that don't go particularly well. If that happens more than either one of us cares to admit, I can forgive it. Even if he’s drunk, petulant, belligerent, cynical, he’s still mine. Today is only sweet though--and I know what the flowers always mean by now.

Since he’s given me the flowers, I give him the words. “I love you, Lewis.”

And he takes my hand and I pull the door shut behind us. We go to find some lunch, leaving through the back door so as to avoid any awkwardness.

When we do finally come back, I’m more than a little tipsy thanks to dinner wine, and Lew’s definitely much more than tipsy, and this afternoon seems deliciously funny. So, when Dick tells Lew whatever it was he was going to say earlier, the two of us have smiles playing around our mouths; I'm biting my lip to keep my giggles contained. Dick is the only one who has the grace to look embarrassed.

Still then, it’s late and it’s bedtime, and honestly, it’s a rare treat to spend the whole night just sleeping next to him. Both of us are naked but so, so tired. There’ll be time enough tomorrow. He pulls the blankets over us both. I’m lying half on top of him, our bare skin pressed together, my breasts flat against his chest.

The moon is nearly full tonight, a bright beam shines through the curtains leaving a white square on the floor. Lighting up our boots, all tumbled together in a comfortable pile, like they belong that way and maybe they always will.


	15. Stay, Kitten

“  
  
---  
  
Stay right there, kitten. Just like that.” I’m on the bed, on all fours, listening carefully, a little bit tipsy. Well, more than a little, if you must know, enough to be pliant. That’s how I ended up here, agreeing to this. My knees are wide apart, chest down on the bed, wondering what he’s going to do to me, and, oh yes, I’m naked.

“Arch up a little.”

Lew spanks me. It’s soft, open-handed, of course, he wouldn’t _hurt_ me, not really. Even so, I’m startled, and I let out a noise. I push back into his hand, rubbing against it, and he spanks me again. This time, the noise I make is somewhere between a moan and a purr.

“Yeah?”

I nod, my check brushes against my arm and my eyes are shut, not looking at him.

“Again?”

“Again, please.”

He spanks me in earnest, one warm hand on my hip, the other moves between my legs. The slaps sound wet then wetter; his breathing is harsh, sharp. I make my small noises and let my body move. Everything feels tender, sore, swollen but it’s exquisite, too. I can feel everything, even the very air on my skin. Only when he stops, when his hands and fingers are gentle, stroking and exploring, do I start to cry.

Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m crying. It didn’t hurt that badly. There’s just something about being so vulnerable, putting yourself in a position where you’re placing trust another person so completely. _That’s_ the heady part.

His eyes are the color of chocolate, of warm earth, and there’s a crease between them when he cups my cheek. “Did I hurt you?”

Rubbing my face into his palm, I nod.

“I’m sorry--“

“Don’t be. I liked it.” My voice is tiny.

He gathers me to him, cradling me in his lap, and he puts kisses on my upturned face. Everywhere, cheeks, eyelids, my temples, the tip of my nose, and finally my mouth.

“Love you,” he whispers against my lips. He lays me down, pulls the blankets back so I’m on the sheets, but leaves me uncovered while he undresses.

I’ll never get tired of watching him. I mean, doing anything, not just getting naked. Not that I’m complaining about the view, of course.

He stretches out beside me, his hands at my breasts, teasing my nipples; I can feel him hard against my thigh. For a long while it’s just kissing and stroking and teasing.

He feeds me whiskey kisses, whispers that I taste like champagne, and I feel drunk, from the alcohol or from him, I can’t be sure. Finally, finally, he fits his body between my thighs. He only moves when I spread my legs wider, and then it’s all at once. His hips roll in one smooth motion, he’s above me on his elbows and it’s so warm.

The low iron bed rocks and creaks with his thrusts. My legs are wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. Both of us have our eyes open, looking right at one another. The friction is delicious.

He’s over me, covering me and in me, filling me and my hips rise to meet him. I can feel it, about to happen, and my eyes start to close.

“No, baby, keep them open. Look at me, look at me.”

I do, giving up soft little cries, calling his name and trying to pull him down onto me. Lew collapses on me and I bury my face in his neck, kissing, loving, clutching at his shoulders while he moves. The slow, rhythmic thrusts are gone. His hips move erratically, rapid, tight movements so deep in. He growls into my ear and then stills.

Then it’s me kissing his face, tiny, fervent kisses while I hold him inside me, curled under him like a comma. He just lets me kiss him until I get to his mouth. I can feel the smirk on his lips before he kisses me back.

“What?”

“Happy birthday, kitten.”

My little clock reads 12:03. I surrender to my giggles, which turn into a fit of laughter from him, too. And isn’t that the best gift? He loved me, made me feel safe, and we laughed together in a warm bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Lise’s gift to me was really the use of our shared room and the blind eye she turned at six am when she finally came back, saying good morning to Lew as if it were absolutely normal that he be sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on his boots.

My party was small and something I hardly would have called a celebration at home, but here we are. There were gifts--the kind that can be opened--and cake later at dinner. I had a book and a refill for my lipstick from Lise, common-sense, practical things from Marion--bobby pins, a card of sewing needles and a bit of yarn--and chocolate from little Beatrice.

My gift from Lew was a tiny silver locket. He’d put our pictures inside and had the back engraved, ‘Love from Nix.’ You have to remember, that this was before we knew what would end up happening between us. It was the first piece of jewelry anyone had given me since Johnny died. In those days, young ladies typically didn’t accept jewelry from men, at least that’s what my mother taught me. Once upon a time, Johnny’d given me his high school ring, which was acceptable, and he gave me a bracelet later, which my mother forced me to return. My birthday locket was something tangible to hold on to, proof in writing that Lew loves me.

Lise, Marion, and Beatrice oohed and aahed appropriately over my new necklace and Lew leaned back in his chair and grinned at me over their heads. His chair was tipped back dangerously on two legs so far I hoped he wouldn’t fall, but that smile--oh, even now--made my heart beat a little faster. We were gathered around the table, just the five of us, and Lew could only stay for cake, such as it was.

The cake was also something I hardly would have called a cake before. But again, here we are. It _is_ sweet and unnecessary and frivolous, and Lise made it with love, so even if it is small, I don’t really care. What’s more important are the people around the table, and for one night, we’re safe and happy and together. Even so, I do care a little. It was almost fun at first, making do and finding new ways to stretch food and supplies. The novelty wore off pretty quickly though, and now it’s just one more cross to bear.

Even so, it is my birthday, and I am twenty-four years old, and I am surrounded by people who love me. I even had a letter from Hazel that week. Lew’s lighter strikes and he lights my one lone candle. We sing and cut my cake, and it’s quiet for a few minutes; all of our mouths are full. There’s one very small slice left and no one wants to eat it, even me. We decide to wrap it up and give it to Dr. Watney.

It’s getting late, Lew has to go. His chair scrapes back against the worn wooden floor and he hauls himself to his feet. The one thing we did have enough of was dinner wine. His kisses are warm and tart, Lise and Marion pretend to be very interested in my new book, Beatrice blushes and looks at her hands in her lap.

When Lew finally straightens up, he tosses a cheeky “Good-night, ladies!” over his shoulder and I follow him to the door where we say good-night somewhat more shamelessly than we did at the table. I’m not exactly sure when I’ll be able to see him next, but such is life in September of 1944. It’s another thing we’ve had to get used to. So everyone’ll just have to excuse our displays of affection, even little Beatrice. She has gotten much less shy and innocent, although tonight that strikes me as poignant and melancholy.

Lew and I whisper back and forth in the open doorway. He’s standing one step below me, and he’s still a little taller than I am. What we say isn’t dirty in the least, but it _is_ private, so you’ll just have to fill in the blanks yourself on that one.

Just the four of us girls are left to giggle over coffee, and for a miracle, we all restrain ourselves from picking at Dr. Watney’s cake. Marion and Beatrice eventually go up to bed, so it’s just me and Lise left in the kitchen. We clean up the last of the dishes together, even though she tries to shoo me away.

“What would I do up there by myself?” I ask her.

“You could just keep me company. You do not have to clean.”

“No, but if I’m down here, I may as well be useful. We’ll be done faster that way.”

She grins at me out of one side of her mouth and then she flings water droplets at my face. I retaliate by throwing the dishcloth at her and before long, we’re chasing each other through the kitchen the way children would. This goes on for far too long, until we’re both red-faced and giggling. Honestly, we’re lucky nothing got broken. “Can you please,” comes a disembodied voice from upstairs, “be quiet down there?”

“You’re old enough to know better,” Lise hisses in my ear. She pokes me hard in the ribs.

“You will be twenty- _five_ in the spring,” I remind her. “That’s a whole quarter century.” I poke her back just as hard as she poked me. This almost starts off another round of playful shoving, or it would have, if whoever was at the top of the stairs hadn’t cleared her throat pointedly before retreating to her room.

Lise and I, chastised, went quietly up the stairs to our own room. We have our two twin beds, a highboy, twin night-tables, and a dresser with a mirror hanging over it. Also, one tall window covered only by white cotton curtains that do nothing to hold out the moon’s light. It looks even more stark at night than it does doing the day, especially when the moon is full, the way it is on September 3rd, 1944.

My birthday was on a Sunday that year. At home, we would have gone to church, even in Chicago, Johnny would have taken me. Maybe we would have gone to St. Mary of the Angels, if for no other reason that I loved the name and that it’s beautiful there. I haven’t been to church in a really long time--in fact, later I will have a hard time reconciling the things I saw with what I was raised to believe--but I think God will forgive me that. Anyway, we would have gone to mass, and there would have been dinner and a gooey chocolate cake. Probably Devil’s food, even on a Sunday. Oh, and breakfast. My mother made me biscuits and gravy every year since I can remember. All the people who loved me would have been there--

And that’s where my train of thought stops. Everyone who loves me _is_ here, everyone who can be, anyway. My parents and my brother and Johnny are always with me in a way, so that just leaves Hazel and her family. She has seemed very far away for a long time; I’ve never even met her youngest child. No biscuits and gravy, but there was toast and butter, no church, but I did wake up safe and warm next to Lew, and Lise baked me a cake with a little butter and sugar, and a lot of love. I decide not to be maudlin.

Lew sometimes calls me his mercurial girl. I suppose he’s right. I’ve gone from capering wildly in the kitchen to being wistfully melancholy, to being quietly thankful for what I do have right here.

Lise is already in her night-gown and crawling into her bed by the door. I wash my face and change quickly, and then I get into her bed with her. She squawks and sighs with an exquisitely French exasperation.

“Shove over. It’s still my birthday.”

“You are impossible, do you know that?” She pauses and yawns, but she does make room for me. It’s still a tight squeeze though. Our beds are small and, as close as we are, I don’t want to lie half under her the way I do with Lew. Not unless it’s very, very cold. “Haven’t you had enough bed-mates for one day?”

“Oh, I suppose so. The first one was nicer to me, though.” We’re facing each other in the semi-dark. Her hair looks very dark against the white pillowcase; my head is resting on my arms. Lise is thinner than she used to be, and there are lines on her face that weren’t there when we met. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Supper was lovely. And I loved my cake.”

“You’re welcome.” Her eyes are still open, she’s staring up at the ceiling. “Do you know this is the third birthday you’ve spent with me?”

I make a small, noncommittal noise. The memory is bittersweet and although it no longer hurts, it does make my heart ache. That first birthday, it was her and me and Johnny. She hadn’t even met her James yet. It seems like a very long time ago, even though it’s only been two years. So much has changed since then. And so have we. My birthday in 1942 was in London. We ate at some restaurant I’ve long since forgotten, and the cake was a tiny chocolate thing, and there was table wine, and we’d danced. Johnny’d danced with both of us, taking turns. It was the last really good night he and I had together.

I’d had no way to know it then, but my poor husband would be gone before the year was over. It was an accident, and that made it even harder. I don’t even like to think about it. Lise was the one who took care of me afterwards. We were still pretty much newly friends, but she became a sister to me. She was just always there. Later, when she didn’t hear from her James and she didn’t know where he was, I returned the favor. Good friends are invaluable. You don’t find someone who understands you every day.

“Lise?”

“What is it?”

“Where do you think we’ll be next year?”

“Rissa, tonight, I decide to think that we will all be safe and home and all of this _merde_ will be done.” She yawns again. “Maybe me and my James will be married by then. Maybe Lew will make on honest woman of you.” Her elbow digs into my side. “Who knows? _Que sera, sera_. Anything is possible.”

Lise is the best friend I’ve ever had in my life. I cannot count how many either stupid things we’ve done together or how many times we’ve been each other’s saving grace. That’s love, too.

“Now go get into your own bed and let me sleep.”

The floor is cold under my bare feet and I hurry to my bed.

Wouldn’t you know my crazy friend was almost right? A year later, it was all over and Lew had proposed to me. She wasn’t married yet and we weren’t home, but we were safe. Of course, I didn’t know any of that then. Still, that night, I curled up in a warm bed with a full belly, feeling very much loved, and fell asleep in a pool of moonbeams.


	16. Fairytale Creatures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesus Christ, I’m so tired. I want to go home. I want my own woods and my own stream. I’m tired of living out of my bags, staying in rooms that belonged to someone else and that will belong to someone else as soon as I leave for my next destination. I wish I didn’t know all the ways bodies can be broken.

**Reprieve** , _noun:_ a pause, a _brief_ pause.

It might last an hour, maybe, or an entire afternoon, but not more than that. It may be eerie at night, the last silent moment before the final barrage, or a golden gift from benevolent gods on a sunny afternoon. Today is somewhere in between, daytime but overcast, neither warm nor cool, clammy around the edges, a good day for a sweater, both so it can keep you warm and so that you can take it off when your sweat begins to prickle.

Lew came to fetch me. He is also somewhere in between, but I don’t think I can help with that today. There’s nothing around here, really, just drab houses and scarred earth. Lew takes me for a walk instead of mulling around the few open shops and cafés. There’s a path that leads through sparse woods to a slow-moving stream, this is where we find ourselves. Today, instead of walking beside him, I follow slightly behind. He holds my hand as if he’s leading me, which he is. My mood has left me recalcitrant in everything.

We don’t really talk, other than Lew telling me to watch my step as I follow him down the incline. He turns to hold my elbow so I don’t trip or turn an ankle on the roots that cross the dirt path. He does not ask me what is wrong or try to make me smile, and for this I am grateful. His steadying fingers linger on my arm, his other hand rests on my waist or at the small of my back. Sometimes it’s easier not to say the words, and sometimes we can speak without them. It’s starting to warm up. I peel off my thin wool sweater and weak sunshine filters through the trees. We just stand there when we come to the water, close but not quite touching. I can feel the warmth from his body.

I miss swimming. I miss churning ice cream on the back porch and eating it there. I miss my parents and my sister. I miss lying in bed on a Saturday morning, arms and legs tangled in the sheets and sun flooding through the window. I miss being clean, knowing where I’ll be and what will happen tomorrow. I miss _normalcy_. But right now, I miss being in the water, as it is accessible, waiting right in front of me.

My boots and long socks with the crooked ribbing end up in a pile in the grass after I strip them off. I wade in, holding the skirt of my dress clear of the water. The water is brown, my feet pale ghosts on the rocky bottom. It feels good though, cool and sharp and _real_ , up around my knees. Lew watches me, still not talking, just looking until I turn away from him, giving him my back. There are birds singing, spilling clean little notes into the dingy air. The grass is green interwoven with dying hay-colored blades. Leaves rustle. We’re caught here, waiting. The watch Johnny bought for me ticks. It was a birthday present.

Jesus Christ, I’m so tired. I want to go home. I want my own woods and my own stream. I’m tired of living out of my bags, staying in rooms that belonged to someone else and that will belong to someone else as soon as I leave for my next destination. I wish I didn’t know all the ways bodies can be broken.

A flash of red-orange moving low to the ground catches my eye. The vixen stops in front of her two kits. She’s pretty, graceful. Not pretty, but beautiful, on her slender legs with her delicate muzzle and bright eyes, sleek, and her babies are fuzzy balls of fluff gamboling along behind her. I can tell the moment she sees me, or sees us, who knows which. The three of them go stock still, and it’s only then I see the dog behind them. One of his ears is ragged, his eyes are alight with clever sort of intelligence. He yawns and lets out a yip. The vixen noses her kits back into the trees, to their father, and I catch a glimpse of her white-tipped tail as they go to find their water elsewhere. The dog leaves last, watching Lew and me until his family has moved past him, and them he trots after them without sparing us a backward glance.

I dropped my skirt somewhere in the middle of that, and a good four inches of it float around my knees. It will cling when I come out of the water, but for now it fans in the current.

Lew is still watching me from the bank when I slowly move to face him again, his eyes dark and eyebrows furrowed.

“Did you see them?” I ask.

He nods in response and holds a hand out to me.

The rocks are mostly large and smooth under my feet, but I step on a small one with a sharp edge. It does not break the skin, but it hurts badly enough that my foot pulls up involuntarily and I hiss. Later there will be a bruise there, just below the ball of my foot, and it will hurt whether I’m walking or standing still.

Gooseflesh covers my lower legs when I step onto the grass and into Lew’s waiting arms. When I try to step back, he keeps hold of my hands, so he can study me from my shadowed eyes to my dirty toes. He gives me a small smile and I want to apologize for being the way I am today.

It’s like the color has been leached out of the world, except for the foxes and their kits, and Lew’s lips. The kiss is generous, soothing, and it lasts for a long time.

“You look like a nixie.”

“A what?” For a moment I thought he said that I look like a Nixon, but that can’t be right.

“A nixie. A water sprite. You can tell a nixie by the wet hem of her skirt.”

“Are they nice?”

He shrugs. “Depends on the story. Sometimes they’re friendly, sometimes they lure men to drown.” He cups my face with one hand, the other fits in the spaces between my ribs. Lew could be holding my beating heart in his palm. “You, you’re both. But you would only drown me, and only in the best way possible.”

“I’m just a girl, Lew.”

“No, you’re not. You’re no siren, either. You're a fucking mermaid. You-you keep those men from drowning. Just don’t get lost down there. I need you.” His thumb moves across my lower lip. “I love you, Rissy.”

“I love you, too. I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

I shrug and step back, wrapping my arms around myself, but my eyes don’t leave his.

“Come here, sit with me. Put your head in my lap.” Lew’s hands in my hair are comforting, the way he cradles my head makes me feel safe. “Tell me why you like the water so much, sweetheart.”

“You know how they say that life started in the ocean?” Lew nods, touches the tip of my nose. “I think I never forgot that. It’s like flying, being weightless and clean. Or it can pull you under. I like pools and lakes and the shower and the bath.”

“I know how much you like the bath.” I smile in response to his smirk and he grins. “There it is, there’s my pretty girl.” The grin fades until it’s just a sad little thing. “Have you ever swum in the ocean?”

“No. Just Lake Michigan.”

“Maybe I’ll take you some time.”

“To Lake Michigan?”

“No, baby, to the ocean.”

“Which one?” I let my eyes shut, it’s orange-red behind my lids, the same color as the vixen. Lew rubs my legs, smoothing away my goosebumps.

“A warm, tropical one. White sand beaches and fish like jewels. You wouldn’t believe how blue it can be.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’d love it.”

“I’d love anywhere with you.”

“Even here?”

“Even right here.” My eyes close again. I’m exhausted, suddenly even whispering back and forth seems like too much effort.

“Go to sleep, _bichette_.”

I have no idea how long I’m asleep, but when I wake up he’s shaking my shoulder gently.

“We have to go back. Any longer and it’ll be dereliction of duty.”

I get to my feet, moving slowly because my arms and legs are stiff. I must not have moved at all during my nap. On the way back, I walk next to Lew. His arm is around my shoulders; mine snakes around his waist so I can tuck my hand in his hip pocket.


	17. Happy Birthday, Starshine!

I make a needy little sound when Lew takes his fingers from me and he scoffs. He moves as if to kiss me, but stops short and grins widely.

“Uh-uh, not yet. Do you want to say something?” There’s the grin again. “Oh, you can’t, can you, kitten? Not allowed.” Then a humid whisper in my ear, “You did promise.”

His fingers come back, but only briefly. They trail down my belly, hip bone, the outside of my thigh. Then up, achingly slowly, and then he stops short once again and I can’t help but to arch toward him. Lew’s hands push my hips back down onto the desk.

“Do you want to kiss me?” I nod at him enthusiastically. “You can kiss me right here, then.” He touches his own hip bone and then helps me clamber to my knees. I’m naked, his clothes are just moved out of the way. I mouth his skin, barest trace of teeth and his hand twines in my hair. “Lick there,” and he pulls me to lap at the ridge under the head of his cock. “Good girl, sweetheart, very good. More?” He sits and I move between his spread knees so I can take him in my mouth. His hands move in my hair, cupping my head, finding the edge of my ear. It’s nice, how he pets me. I love it, his hands on me and him in my mouth.

I work, kneeling between his booted feet and listening to the quiet sounds he’s making. We’re playing today, it’s my job to stay right here and do as I’m told, until he tells me to do otherwise.

“Sit back up on the desk, honey.” He doesn’t need to tell me to keep my thighs spread. “Are you ready for me? Are you ready for me, Rissy?” His one finger is almost irritating; I want more from him. “You want me in there?” His finger circles my opening, just barely inside. I nod at him, watching his hands on me and whining when they move away. “Good girl.”

It’s really not so much that I’m being good, but his endless teasing has left me in a decidedly desperate state.

 “ _Bichette_ , I know it’s my birthday, but today you’re getting the spanking. Quiet, now.” Lew spanks me with warm open-handed slaps. He’s turning twenty-six. I stay quiet until he’s at seventeen, but I’m careful to keep my moans and whines low. I don’t want to explain why I’m naked on his desk. The door _is_ locked, but even so.

“That was very good, Rissy. Very nice.” His hand is gentle now, separating my folds and finding the small knot between them. “Shall I touch you here now? Would you like that? Tell me.”

“Yes, please, Lew.”

“You need to tell me.”

“I want you to touch my…”

“Your what? You have to say it.”

My cheeks burn and I babble. My half-whisper ends in a whine. But I’ve pleased him, so there’s that.

“Good girl. Of course. Gentle or harder?”

“Start gentle.”

“Then?”

“Harder.” It comes out so low I’m nearly mouthing the word.

His touching is gentle at first, feather-light, up-and-down and then across. “You can make your noise, honey,” he whispers. I give him moans and sighs from low in my throat. I can’t keep my hips quiet any longer. Both his hands are busy at making me feel good, and this is something he is adept at.

“Ready?” I nod--I can’t form words--and the fingers inside stay gentle but the ones at the small bundle of nerves don’t. He touches me until I’m begging him please, please, _please_. And then, and then, and then everything comes completely undone.

One corner of his mouth and one eyebrow lift in that all-knowing self-satisfied smirk. My lips quirk in response and he lets out a huff of a laugh. “Okay, miss, get over here, would you.” He pushes the chair back from his desk. His cock is flushed and almost quivering and it’s very warm when I lower myself down onto his lap.

We’re balanced on an office chair with wheels, which is interesting. I straddle his lap and move while he clutches me, his hands on my breasts and on my ass. When I clench around him, his fingers dig in so hard that I have bruises later, all the tender parts covered in Lew’s fingerprints. They change from purple to blue to green and then yellow until they’re gone. I don’t mind, not a bit. He likes it when I hold him inside and when I grind into his lap; it isn’t long before I’m the one shushing him.

But, oh, his face when he comes. When his eyes are screwed shut and his face is all flushed and the cords in his neck stand out, when his fluids are added to mine and it’s deliciously warm and wet and I can feel him throbbing in me. It’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. In that soft aftermath, we cling to each other while he’s still inside me. We’re holding one another up, my mouth is at his ear.

“Happy birthday, Captain Nixon.”

“Hey, did you get me anything?”

I sit back and swat at him before we’re both giggling.

“Actually, might have done. But you’ll have to wait until tonight.” I climb off his lap on unsteady legs and begin to get dressed. The clock is almost at three, I have to get back. There will be dinner later, and real gifts, the kind you can unwrap, and in front of your friends, no less. My back is turned when I hear him swear.

“Oh _fuck_.”

“What is it?”

“My fucking pants are a goddamn mess, Rissy.”

They are, too. I’m really not sure what he’ll do for the rest of the day until he can change clothes. “That’s what happens when you don’t want to take your clothes off, Lewis.” I toss my slip at him. “Here, use that to clean up a little.”

He takes it but he asks me, “What will you do? You can’t leave your underthings in my office and you can’t wear it like that for the rest of the day.”

“I guess I’ll just have to be dirty. I should be used to it by now. You’re a bad influence. You’ve corrupted me.”

“You loved every minute of it.”

“That I did.” I cup his cheek tenderly and bend to kiss him. And then there are voices coming down the hall, and I scramble back into my clothes so that by the time Lew gets up to open his door, I’m tying my boots. It might be patently obvious what we’ve been doing, but it can be overlooked. Lew seems to operate under a different set of rules than anyone else. And after all, it’s possible that I only took off my boots and nothing else, and that we were only talking and not…Well, it’s possible but not probable.

“Alright, Rissy, I’ll see you later.” He leaves a kiss just at the corner of my mouth. Out of the corner of my eye I see that smirk again but I only kiss him back demurely. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Happy birthday.” And I sidle out past the men in the doorway, leaving them with their eyebrows in their hair. It was the first time we’d said that in front of anyone else, you see.

Outside it was a lovely late September afternoon, golden and warm, and I was young and in love.


	18. Delaying the Inevitable?

The night starts off the way a lot of them do, with cocktails that we invent ourselves because one must improvise when supplies are limited, necessity being the mother of invention and all. Sometimes the results are lovely and sometimes they are downright awful, but we always have a good time, laughing at our experiments. That progresses to drinking straight whiskey from Lew’s flask, which is nothing new to him, but I still try to be a lady when I can. Lastly, I drink right from the bottle in great warm swallows until it trickles out of the corner of my mouth and I laugh then sputter. This is neither pretty nor lady-like. I am not tipsy, I am flat-out drunk.

I go to kiss him, slurring that I love him, and I’m shocked when he gently but firmly pushes me away. He might as well have slapped me across the face.

“Don’t.” His face and voice are hard, his eyes are like two coals. He’s not looking at me, and I realize I’ve been the only one laughing for quite some time. He’s just become sullen, something that’s happening more and more frequently.

“But--” I reach for his arm and he backs out of my grasp. His posture is stiff, not formal, but almost hostile.

“Just don’t. You should go.”

“Did I do something?” I’m confused. “I can’t go--” I can’t go anywhere, not like this. He must see that because his expression softens, but only by the tiniest of fractions. What I see isn’t love or kindness, only a kind of grim resignation.

“No. You didn’t do anything.” He lurches to his feet, ungainly. “Here, you take the couch. I’ll take the floor.” The words are clipped. He’s not even slurring. But at least he’ll be right here by me, not in the other room. That’s something. Although I wonder why no one gets the bed or why we can’t sleep there together.

“Okay.” I can’t think and it’s no longer fun, it’s irritating, terrifying. Everything is swimming and I don’t understand what’s happening at all. “Don’t you want to--”

“No.”

He leans to give me a pillow and I put my hand on his arm. I want to kiss him. “Okay, okay. Just, I love you, Lew. I l--” I stop abruptly when he twists away from my hand and wrenches from me. His jaw tightens and the mouth that can be so generous is a tight unforgiving line.

“Lew?” My voice is so tiny I can hardly hear myself.

“Go to sleep, Clarissa.” He sounds both dispassionate and exhausted.

“What did I do? What’s wrong?”

“I told you, you didn’t do anything. Go to sleep.”

“But then why--”

“Goddamn it. I’ll take you back in the morning, and that’s it, okay?”

“What are you--”

“This is just--” His hand flutters in loose gesture, meaning both everything and nothing. I feel panicky and I swallow the bile that rises in my throat.

“Don’t--don’t you want me anymore? Don’t you love me?”

“Do I want you? Do I love you?” His face is red, there’s a vein pulsing in his throat. He’s yelling and a leaden ball of dread settles in the pit of my stomach. “I want you all the time. I love you, I love you so goddamn much I could die. You know what though? We’re only delaying the inevitable here. Either one of us will die, or you’ll realize that I’m just--”

“No.” tears are dripping off my face and I’m shaking my head. “No, if you love me and I love you--”

“We’re fucked either way. You need someone who can give you more than trinkets and stolen moments. I’m _married_ , Clarissa. I have a _wife_ , I have a kid. I can’t marry you, I can’t give you anything but--”

“But I want you!”

“Then I pity you.” Lew looks down at the floor. “Sleep here, I’ll take you back in the morning, or someone will.” He turns, stalks into the next room. The door shuts. He doesn’t slam it, only closes it with a quiet and definite finality. Then I’m alone.

I cry. I sob, but the door never opens and he never comes out. I do not sleep. Instead I watch the stars fade and the sun rise and eventually I get up to wash my face and drink water that is slightly cloudy. It’s cold, late fall, nearly Thanksgiving. The little fire has burned out leaving nothing but ashes. I rub my hands together to try and warm them.

His door creaks when it opens, I do not look up. My head hurts. Lew doesn’t look at me, but I don’t look at him either, not really. His eyes are red and swollen; he’s looking at the floor.

“We’ll go in a minute.” His voice is soft, tender. I watch him, watch the way he cleans himself up. His limbs are stiff as if he laid in one position all night and his skin is blotchy and pale. Lew drinks his own water, gulping it. A moment later, he murmurs, “Let’s go.” He opens the door for me and I trudge out into the sunshine. I resent the damn sun; it should be overcast today. Lew doesn’t touch me, not at all.

Again, he opens the door and I climb up. I keep my hands in my lap like I’m holding pieces of myself together.

And then I see what’s been in front of me since he opened the door. He’s driving with one hand, the other on the seat between us. Sitting there, a pale starfish in an endless dirty green sea, exposed and alone in no-man’s land. Tentatively, I reach for his fingers in increments so tiny they’re almost undetectable. When I touch his skin, he does not pull away, but his jaw does tighten, and that pulsing vein makes another appearance.

“I’m not--I’m not going anywhere. I love you. You. Not anyone else, just you. And Lew, I--” I pause to swallow and peek up at his face. “I want whatever time we have together. That’s all. I just--” My voice breaks and I start to cry again. This time there aren’t any sobs, just tears silently dripping from my eyes, and I hug myself with my free arm as if I can hold myself together.

His fingers grasp mine so tightly it hurts. “Shit, oh fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Rissy. I’m sorry.” He’s crying, and I wonder if he was crying last night, too, and waiting for me to open the door. I didn’t, and I could have. He didn’t, but I didn’t do it either.

The road is very narrow, flanked on both sides by dense woods. Anything or anyone could be twenty feet away and we wouldn’t know it. Lew pulls the Jeep onto the soft shoulder of the road. This is an unwise decision, but he can’t drive like this either so there’s nothing else to be done. Nothing happens, no one comes. Lew cries with his hands over his eyes until I pull them away and tip his face up to me. I kiss his tears away and I kiss his mouth and when his arms come around my waist I’m caught in a living, breathing vice.

Later, when we’re both calm again, we drive on. Lew drops me off, coming around to open the door and help me down. We’re still not quite looking at one another.

“What if we forget last night ever happened?”

“No.”

His eyes are stark, and he nods slowly, eyes trained on the dirty pavement.

“I’m not angry, I just don’t want you to forget. I want you to remember that I won’t let you push me away.”

I go up on tiptoe to kiss him good-bye. This goes on for a bit longer than it probably should. His hand is on my belly, he gently guides me back down.

“I love you,” I whisper, and then he whispers back in a husky voice that he loves me too. I turn to go in and his fingers stay twined in mine as long as they possibly can. Then I didn’t see him for nearly two weeks.

* * *

 

The next time is a short-lived reprieve. One night before he’s going to be gone again. It’s cold, not snowing yet, but you could smell that it was coming. The air carries that crisp, electric feeling that always comes before. Supper is the kind of make-shift food you can scrounge up, this is no spring-time in Paris. No linen tablecloths or wide beds with clean white sheets.

We eat our dinner, talk and laugh easily, and we sit very close together on the sofa when the meal is over. Lew kisses me, but his hands are hesitant. It grows late and then later. We don’t turn on the lamp. The only light comes from the window and from the tip of his cigarette glowing orange in the dark. He stretches out and lets his head rest heavily in my lap and I idly stroke hair that needs to be washed. No time or place for that tonight, though.

He sits up and rubs his temple, and gives a cursory glance at the green numbers on his watch. “You’re going to be late.”

“Can’t I stay with you?” My chin trembles just a little. “Please?”

Lew leads me to his bed and I undress down to nothing before I crawl under the sheets. He does not, not all the way. We say good-night and I snuggle into the crook of his arm, my back curled against his side. He kisses the top of my head and then we lie there a long while, not sleeping.

Finally, I bring his hand to my breast and he cups it. I can feel my heart beating there, like he’s holding it in his palm.

“You can touch me.” He does, very gently but that’s all, just warm hands against my skin.

“I’m sorry.” I can feel his lips moving at the crown of my head.

“Why? Because you got scared? Because you’re human?” I lick my bottom lip. “It _is_ scary. It’s overwhelming. I’ve never felt anything even close--I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

“I don’t know what we’re going to do, Rissy. I love you. I have a wife, even if I haven’t seen her or heard her voice in over a year. It doesn’t feel real here but--I just don’t know what we’re going to do about anything.”

I sit up and look at him in the dark, trace his lips and eyebrows. “Right now, I want to love you.” He nods in the dark; the gesture is something I can feel more than anything I can see. My hands fall to his hips, and I pull at his boxers. He doesn’t say anything, just arches upward to make it easier for me. I straddle him. At first I stay on all fours, only ducking my head to leave a trail of kisses up his jaw to his ear, and his hands wander up and down my ribs. Eventually, I lowered myself on to him. There were no games, it was all very loving, because that’s what this is: love. When it’s done, he holds me to his chest close enough that I can’t tell which heartbeat is mine and which is his.

“I won’t let you go, okay? Don’t let me if I try.”

“I’m yours in every way that matters.” I tell myself this is true and I’m no longer sure if it’s just a comforting lie or not. Some people say it’s just a piece of paper. Myself, I don’t know anymore. I just don’t. Maybe that doesn’t matter here, maybe here it matters more than anything else.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, a weak, white sun is already on the horizon when I wake up. I’m wedged between Lew and the wall. The tiny French beds are really not meant for two, but no matter.

This is not to say that everything went smoothly from then on. No, not at all. Because more and more often now, that tumbler is becoming a crutch and not a pleasure. Although I do understand, it hurts me to see him hurting himself. Alcohol would exaggerate any mood he was in, anything from warm and expansive to petulant and bad-tempered. But no, I wouldn’t ever leave him or stop loving him. After all, we’re all broken in our own unique and varied ways. Spring, when we would picnic, and it was all drills and dancing and we were clean, that all seems like such a long time ago.


	19. If You Give a Man a Mitten

I knitted him mittens. I’ve always hated to think of people being cold. Of course, everyone is cold here; there’s no escape from it. At least I’m inside an actual building most of the time. I feel guilty, as if I’ve somehow chosen that he should be cold and I should be marginally less so.

I’ve managed--don’t ask me how, it’s embarrassing--to get my hands on some gloves and scarves and blankets. (Alright, I may or may not have paid for them with a kiss or two. It felt awful, but one does what one must.) The very first chance I have, I get a ride, ostensibly to deliver much-needed medical supplies with my boxes of goodies hidden amongst the other things. I’ve pulled all the strings I could, and put my hands in a few pockets, too. My mother would be very disappointed, but I can justify it to myself: I didn’t take anything that couldn’t be fairly easily replaced by the person I took it from. And it’s not as if I’m keeping any of it for myself; I’m giving all of it to men who really need it.

When I find Lew, he’s in a sort of little shelter, with a roof and half-walls.  Jesus, it’s cold. Bitterly so. Its seeping through my coat and my own mittens and my damn necessary layers. His hands are bare and it tugs at my heart to see how pale and stiff his fingers are and how Dick is shivering.

“I come bearing gifts…morphine, plasma, mittens.” His head whips around at my voice and he smiles through lips that are too pale in a face that’s too pinched and white.

“Mittens?”

“I knit them for you,” I say and I pull them out of my pocket, watch when he covers his fingers. “I’ve got the rest of this stuff, too.”

“What did you do, Rissy?”

“Oh, I begged, borrowed, and stole.”

And that’s how scarves and blankets and gloves and even a few sweaters get divided up. I made sure that a few stayed right here for Lew and for Dick, even though I practically foist them on him, and even then he only accepts reluctantly, although gratefully. There’s food, too, not much, but everything I could get. Thanks to both Dr. Watney and Paul--I knew him from high school and he happens to be a supply officer--I’ve got a heavy crate full of boring food, extra K rations and C rations, some slightly better food, bread and cheese, and even treats, mostly chocolate.

“Did you, now?”

“You’re not the only one who knows people. Some of this was… rerouted.” He laughs and grins and I smile back. “And, you know, sometimes people are grateful for the tender loving care I provide.” I run my finger up his arm. The effect is somewhat ruined by my mittens, but Lew growls at me anyway, pulling me close. His lips are cold, and mine are colder when our kiss is over. I pull my muffler over my mouth, the wool is rough against lips that are already stinging from the cold.

“You do give excellent…care.”

“I do aim to please,” I answer him.

“I know you do.” His eyes sparkle dangerously and my heart skips a beat. I feel completely justified in blaming Lew for the fact that my ride left without me. I had to wait awhile to get another one back to the hospital, but that’s alright; I don’t mind.

I’m in his lap, the scratchy wool blanket wrapped around us both, but I’m only sitting. He’s dirty, he smells a little (or a lot), but don’t we all? Regular showers are a luxury that none of us get, and it’s really too cold besides. Lucky for everyone, the arctic temperatures keep the smell to a minimum. My back is to his front, his arms around my waist, and I settle back against him.

Lew puts a kiss at the back of my neck and I hum happily. He makes a small sound and does it again, teasing, and again once more until it’s not really teasing anymore at all, sucking at the back of my neck, then my throat. Under my coat, my sweater, my dress, and my brassière, my nipples tighten, both from his attention and the cold.

“Hey, c’mere,” he encourages, hands at my hips, trying to turn me.

“Okay,” I whisper, and I twist around, dragging one leg over his lap so that I’m straddling him. Shameless, in broad daylight, with his friend not five feet away. Once we’re face-to-face, he kisses me again, on the mouth. I unbutton his coat, he gets mine, and we sort of wrap them around both of us so we’re cocooned in them together. I nestle into the space between his shoulder and neck while he and Dick talk I just listen. Lew’s hands roam up and down my back, every once and awhile to my bottom lightly stroking. It’s nice; if I was a kitten, I’d be purring.

I can feel the rise and fall of his chest and the rumble of his voice. Despite the cold, despite the setting I can feel the moisture gathering in my folds; the fact that I’m pressed against him and he’s rubbing my ass doesn’t help matters. I embrace him, move his scarf to find bare skin, and kiss him there. His fingers find the bare skin above my wool stockings, rubbing the space between my panties and stockings, his fingertips are cool and dry, but no longer frigid. He moves to kiss me deeply, hands between my legs so close to me where I’m warm and soft and swollen, but not touching. I wonder if he can feel the heat coming off me.

He grabs my hips, pulling me close, and I groan involuntarily, and we both turn when Dick clears his throat. I try to make my eyes pleading when I look at him, and he shakes his head and gets up, still wrapped in his own blanket. He doesn’t say anything at all, but manages to look both irritated and amused at once as he points off into the trees and walks in that direction. I stifle a small giggle into Lew’s neck that turns into a nip. He retaliates by pinching my thigh and I squeal, but quietly. We both laugh a little huskily, the way you do when its late at night and you know exactly what’s going to happen later, but for now it’s still not-too-innocent play. Only this is no dimly lit bar or dark bedroom, it’s mid-afternoon in the pitiless cold and pristine white snow.

It’s warm enough under all our woolen layers. He touches me and I whimper at the slight pressure.

“Please, sweetheart, please? For me?” I murmur, my head on his shoulder, his cheek on mine, his head bowed.

“Right here?” His lips move against my ear and a little shiver runs through me, not from the cold.

“Mm-hmm, right here.” My fingers slip under his jacket, his shirt to find his belly and he fumbles with his own buttons but it’s me that reaches into his pants. We’re hardly moving; from the outside, this would only look like cuddling--still highly inappropriate, given the situation--but even so only cuddling. Fingers move my panties aside, dipping into me and making me shiver from something other than cold. He flicks at me gently and when I can’t stand it anymore I lift my hips.

At first, he does nothing more than rub himself against me. The head of his cock tickles my vagina and runs up my seam to the bundle of nerves and presses there.

“Ready?”

“I want you inside. It’s as close as we can be and I need you. If that makes me a whore, then I’m a whore--but I’m your whore.”

“Shh.” His hands guide my hips down, but slowly. He fills me up a little bit at a time until I’m sitting in his lap again, only this time his body is inside mine. My booted feet are braced against the rungs of the chair and I use the leverage to move, grinding against him and squeezing him while he’s in me. He gives me almost soundless grunts; his fingers dig into my waist. “It’s okay, Rissy, s’okay.”

Suddenly, it’s too much and I’m close to tears. “That’s not what this is, though--”

“I know. It’s not. I love you.”

It’s everything-an affirmation of life, just wanting something that feels _good_ , wanting to know that there’s still something pure and sweet in the world, wanting something normal, and, of course, love, too.

We’re huddled together, I’m moving over him, his hand is between my legs again, gently prodding there, the way he knows I like, and then he’s moving my hand there. “You do it. Do it for me.” I touch myself, caressing him in the process and we rock together in the rickety chair, barely protected from falling snow.

Friction creates heat, and before long he’s thrusting up into me, moaning in my ear, rubbing his face on mine like a cat. Mine happens just a few seconds before his. I settle back into his lap, holding him inside until he moves me to tuck himself away and adjust his clothes. Gentle fingers pull my panties back over me and pet me. His fluids are warm and sticky inside me, soaking my cotton panties there’s so much of it.

“It’s been a while,” he chuckles ruefully and gathers me up next to him.

And then I move so my legs are over one side of his lap and I can keep my knees demurely together. His lighter strikes and a moment later he exhales a cloud smoke that hangs above our heads. He lounges--as much as is possible, anyway--and sighs and I giggle. We’re still sharing the cigarette when Dick comes back, making more noise than necessary as a warning. He needn’t worry; we’re not _perverse_ ; we don’t want him to see us any more than he wants to see it. It’s just that desperate times call for desperate measures.

When he comes back we’re still in the chair, fitting together comfortably, nothing showing but hands and faces above the blanket.

“Are the two of you decent?”

“When have I ever been decent?” Only he is, more than that, he’s a good man.

When there’s a ride for me, Lew walks to the Jeep with me, gives me a kiss good-bye, cupping my face with mittened hands.

“They’re not practical when you need your fingers.”

“I’ll wear them over my gloves.”

“Did you see?” My finger traces his wrist over the brown wool. I have mittens, too; pale pink, an echo of the girliest of girls I used to be. Knit into the mitten on his left hand, just above the cuff, over the pulse point in his wrist, are three pink stitches. I turn over my hand to show him the three brown ones worked into mine in exactly the same place. I shake my head, making fun of myself. “It’s silly, I know.”

“It’s ridiculous,” he answers, but his eyes luminous in the twilight so there’s no sting in his words. His expression is tender and indulgent. He gives me a last kiss, tongue sliding between my lips, and it’s only reluctantly that I pull away, pushing him back with a hand tented on his chest. Men are staring from amongst the trees, watching Captain Nixon and his girl carry on like teen-agers. I wave and he scoffs, the driver dryly asks if I’ll be ready to go soon.

Lew puts me on the Jeep, his hand under my elbow so I don’t fall, and slaps the side of it twice. It jolts to life and I rock back in my seat.

“Hey, be careful of her,” he says, only no one hears it but me. He takes care of me, I take care of him, both of us doing the best we can. He’s the most important person to me--anywhere he happens to be is home to me, even if that place is a sub-zero forest under falling snow, both completely unforgiving and beautiful.

I turn and smile, waving, and he raises his hand, staying that way until I can no longer see him.


	20. Love

When I went looking for him, I was gestured toward a room with a closed door. I eased it open, being careful and quiet, not quite knowing what to expect. I was told he was ‘in a mood.’ And he is; he’s swearing before he even looks up to see who’s opened the door.

The furniture is heavy and ornate, nothing like the spare austerity that I’ve gotten used to. Lew’s head is on the desk next to a half-full bottle of his precious Vat 69, his face turned away from the door. An empty one is overturned on the floor at his feet. The rug is all rich reds and greens and golds, tassels lying limply on the hardwood floor. Mellow lamplight glints off his dark hair, which lies over his forehead in a damp fall. One hand is curled around an empty glass, I’m guessing his eyes are shut, and the one cheek I can see is flushed. The entire room reeks of alcohol and smoke.

I start to cross the room to open the window. Honestly, this looks like the kind of room he belongs in, right down to the fireplace. The smell, however, leaves something to be desired. There is nothing elegant about the stink of a distillery mixed with an ashtray.

“Who the fuck--” Lew’s brow is all furrowed when he finally lifts his head.

“It’s me. Only me.” His eyes are bleary, a little unfocused, but the smile that blooms across his face at seeing me could rival the sunset. Or the sunrise, or the night sky, or honestly, anything.

“It’s you.” He’s slurring.

“Yeah, we’ve established that, love.” I perch gingerly on the edge of his desk, careful not to sit on his maps and papers or to upset his ink. He’s got a mostly empty coffee cup, a full ashtray, and a litter of pens and pencils scattered across the desktop. And the empty rocks glass, of course. He catches me looking and scowls; I huff, carding his hair in my fingers as he pulls me closer, putting his head in my lap.

“I’ll clean it up later,” he starts peevishly.

“I didn’t come here to fuss at you or fight with you,” I say mildly. “I just wanted to see you. Besides,” I tease, “I’m messy, too. I can’t pick at you about that. I'd have to start being tidy myself.” I run a finger along his eyebrow.

“Waddaya want, Rissy?”

“I want to sit right here on your messy desk with your head in my lap. “I was thinking of giving you a kiss. If you want one, that is.” I want to make you feel better, I think. I want you to be happy and safe and healthy.

I get a raised eyebrow and a lecherous drunken leer. I lean down and carefully place my lips to his cheekbone, leaving a red lipstick kiss on his face.

He yawns widely, not bothering to cover his mouth. “I’m so tired, Rissa.” A cloud passes over his face and there's a tug at my heart. I wish I'd known him before all of this, before he had to do things that really shouldn't be asked of anyone. Of course, I'm not the girl I once was, either. We’ve all been done things and seen things that no one should have to do or see, yet here we are.

I know he’s not talking about just wanting sleep. He’s weary. I wonder what it’s like for him--at least my job is to help people, to comfort and to put back together--to preserve life whenever possible and to try to let it end with a little kindness and dignity if it isn’t. Even so, my work is bad enough, his is different. He’s right there, on the line, a lot of the time; I only see the aftermath, which is often horrifying, but at least I'm spared the actual destruction. He’s weary and cynical and he’s disillusioned and he’s had enough; he’s also looking for relief in the wrong place. But I understand why, and I don’t, can’t, fault him for it.

Some things just must be done, and God, yes, this is necessary, there is no question of that, but it comes at such a cost to each of us as an individual.

Lew rubs his face against my thigh like the cat I had as a girl. He was brown, which is unusual, and very sweet. We called him Chocolate Bar. He was a family pet, but he was really more mine than anyone else's. I’m feeling very tender, indulgent, rubbing Lew’s cheekbone with my thumb.

“I’m kind of in love with you, Nix.”

“You don’t call me that.” The voice coming from my lap is losing its edge, the flinty quality smoothing out.

“Just did, though.”

“Alright, _Mitchell_.”

“Do me a favor, _bébé_ , and don’t call me by my last name. Treat me like I’m a girl.”

Lew looks up at me. “Clarissa, what was your maiden name?” His words still run together, ‘what-wass-yer.’ I touch the bridge of his nose, trace the Cupid’s bow of his upper lip. He cups my calf; his hand is very warm.

“Love. It was Love. My dad was James and my mother was Emily and my sister is Hazel. I was Clarissa Harlowe Love. My mother liked to read.”

“And then you were Clarissa Harlowe Mitchell.”

“Mm-hmm. I just moved a little farther down the alphabet.”

“Oh. That suits you,” he pauses and fills it with a wide yawn, not bothering to cover his mouth. “You really are a Love, love…”

“I suppose you can call me that.” His hair is just a bit too long, I massage his scalp and he lets out a content little sound, burrowing into my lap. “I’ll allow it.”

“That’s nice of you.” It comes out ‘that’sh-nishe-a-yoo.’ The back of his neck is warm and smooth, relaxed under my hand when my fingers dip under his collar. It’s a tiny intimacy to reach under someone's clothes or into their pockets. This is true with anyone--how many times have I reached into Lise’s or Marion’s or Beatrice’s pockets? Or on one occasion, Dr. Watney’s? Formalities fall to the wayside, friendship breeds easy familiarity. I look down at my lap, at Lew’s dark head pillowed there, like this is where he belongs, a place he’ll always be welcome and wanted. He yawns into my leg again.

“Hey, Lew, how about I take you to bed?” The knob at the top of his spine is clearly defined under my fingertips.

His hand comes up and cups my breast, rubbing my nipple with his thumb. I let him for a minute before I circle his wrist with my fingers and gently move his hand. “That’s not what I meant, sweet pea. You need rest. You need to sleep.”

“I’ll tellya what I need--“

“I think you might be a little too far gone for all that.” Still indulgent. “What if I stay with you for a while, though? Just for a bit, until you fall asleep.” He nods in response. I like the way the short, bristly hairs at his nape feel. “Alright, let’s get you to bed, then.”

This turns out to be no small feat. I’m not a tiny girl by any means, I grew up on a farm, we all did actual physical work. Still, I am significantly smaller than Lew, he’s got nine or ten inches on me and, well, many pounds. But still, somehow we manage, with some assistance from the wall. He stumbles, we both laugh, and I silently thank God that I don't have to maneuver him up any stairs. When I finally get him into his bedroom and to the bed, he sits on the edge--collapses might be a better word--and lets me undress him. First his boots and socks, and then the rest of his clothes, until he’s down to his underthings. He’s docile all the while, letting me move him this way and that and leaning against me. He lifts his arms up so I can pull his undershirt off and then we’re done. It reminds me of my baby brother, he used to do the same thing. He was in the car, too, with my parents. Joshua. I don't talk about him.

Lew’s hands are on me the whole time, at my waist and hips, in my hair when I'm working on his boots, at my breasts, cupping my elbow. I step into the circle of his arms and hold him close to me. I drop a kiss onto the top of his head. “Here, lay down.”

He does and I tuck him in, raining small kisses on his face until he’s covered in lipstick marks. I avoid his mouth, though, laughing low in my throat at his frustration before giving in. For a few minutes, anyway.

“Hey, c’mere, c’mere, Rissy,” he murmurs, pulling at me. I clamber over him to lie beside him on top of the covers and Lew curls towards me. “You’re so pretty,” he slurs, his fingers trailing from my knee and then upwards before I stop him. But again, gently, there’s no sting in it, it’s not any kind of a rejection. “But I love you so much, I want you.” He gives me wide puppy-dog eyes. The effect is only somewhat ruined because they’re bloodshot.

I roll my own eyes and shake my head, looking upward, feigning exasperation, but at this point it’s still only for show. He nestles closer, head pillowed on my belly looking at me blearily. One corner of his mouth lifts and his hand starts roaming again. I smack it lightly and then giggle at the scowl on his face.

“You have me. Listen, Nix, I want you, too, all the time, every day. Right now, we couldn’t, even if we could, though. Not unless you want a little Lewis or a little Clarissa.”

His hair is soft under my fingers, his eyes are shut. “Not yet, baby.” My eyes snap wide open--this was unexpected. He continues as if he hasn't just said something incredibly revealing. “You want me all the time?”

“Not all the time like _that_ , but I love you all the time.” He smiles, sweet and sleepy, completely unself-conscious. I’m still reeling a little from his little revelation, and Lew doesn’t even seem to realize what he’s said. I twine his dark hair through my fingers, stroking his cheekbone. “All the time,” I whisper, “every minute.”

“You’re gonna stay for a while?”

“Yeah, I’ll stay here with you for a bit. Go to sleep, sweetheart. You need sleep.” I’m whispering, looking at him in the dim, warm light. “Go to sleep, I’m not going anywhere.” I pull on him, “Here, put your head on the pillow, I’ll rub your back for you.”

He’s warm, flushed. I trace the curve of his upper lip again before I kiss him, lingeringly. It’s a tender, languid kiss; his lips are soft and yielding underneath mine. It’s only the one kiss I give him, and then I rub his shoulders, his back, his neck, having to reach around him, turning it into an embrace. His face is pressed into my chest and he groans.

“That feels good. So nice.”

I make a noncommittal noise, rubbing harder, and lean to speak into his ear. “Well, I do aim to please. I like it when you let me take care of you.”

He sighs, nuzzling into my chest, one arm around my waist. He rubs his eyes, looking like he must have as a kid. The lamplight gives him a rosey glow, a stray lock of hair is falling over his forehead, five o’clock shadow beginning to show. It’s his expression that does it, though. His whiskey has stolen his filter, there’s no pretense, he looks candid, besotted almost. And someday, he wants to have children with me. Just for a minute, I let my mind wander, imagining what those hypothetical babies would be like. Soft, velvet-skinned cherubs with pale, flushed skin and dark eyes and hair. Miniature little fingers and toes that I could count and coo over.

We’re quiet, lying together in the near darkness. The bed is large, wide with deep pillows and soft blankets. This room is all dark wood and deep blue and pewter, muted in the dim light of a small weak lamp. It might even be gloomy, but I'm here with someone I love, someone who loves me right back, and that makes it cozy instead, even though the room is cavernous. My eyes fall shut, lulled by Lew’s breathing and his nearness and the warmth radiating off of him.

“I could fucking marry you,” he slurs. “You wanna get married, Rissy? You wanna marry me?” For the second time that night, my eyes snap open. This is a night of revelations; he’s too drunk to be anything but honest.

“Darling, you’re already married.” Despite my dismissive words, my heart is pounding. The truth is that I would marry him right now, this very minute.

He gestures as if this is inconsequential, waving it away. His eyes are closed; he’s drowsy. “Yeah, but you luurve me. We could get married and fuck and I’d put babies in you ‘cause I luurve you.”

He’s drunk and he’s tired, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, and he won’t remember it in the morning even if he did. We’ve kind of played out this little scene before, and yes, we love each other, but part of me always wonders how much the desperate situation we’re in contributes. But he’s mine, oh God, he’s mine in every way that matters save one.

Finally, his breathing evens out, slow and regular, his limbs are heavy, and there’s no tension at all left in him. He’s asleep. I extricate myself from him, leave one more kiss on his mouth, and he says something unintelligible. On quiet stocking feet, I get up, find a washcloth in the bathroom and run it under warm water to take the lipstick from his face.

It’s late, I should go, I need some sleep myself. But first I fill up his water glass and leave two aspirin tablets beside it on the bedside table. One last look at him, tousled dark hair, brows, inky lashes, his full lips and the angle of his jaw, one bare shoulder left uncovered. I turn the lamp off, leaving him in the friendly, quiet darkness, whisper a wish for his sweet dreams into his ear. I myself wish that I could climb back into the bed, curl up with him, and stay there for the whole night.

Instead, I pick up my shoes from the floor beside the bed, holding them by the straps in one hand. I tiptoe to the door in the dark. The door is very tall, towering above me.

“Lew, I’d marry you right now, this minute. I would. We’d make love and have babies and love each other and I’d take care of you for all the rest of my life.” And then I turn and shut the door, walking down the hall and down the stairs in stocking feet.


	21. De la Poitrine Fumée

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poitrine fumée is 'smoked bacon'; 'poitrine' can also be loosely translated as breasts.
> 
> Cockapert is a real word; it means impertinent. It's one of my favorite words. That little exchange really happened between my friend and me and I liked it so much I put it in my little story.
> 
> This is just cute fluff to balance out all the smut. ツ

Patients can be very grateful. That only stands to reason. Of course, there are a lot of them who aren’t, but there are some men who are thankful, and who may or may not give a girl small tokens of appreciation. That’s not how this came to be, though. There was a farmer, and he had a wife and a brand-new baby. The child was sick, we helped. A while later, I got a basket, and inside, wrapped in muslin, was bacon, and American-style bacon at that.

I wanted to eat it, I can’t even begin to explain how much I wanted to eat it. Bacon, you see, is a rarity in wartime. Rationing and all. My mother used to make us huge, hot breakfasts. Fresh eggs, biscuits or toast dripping with butter, and bacon, wholesome farm food, made with love. Always bacon, never sausage. She’d pour out milk and juice and we’d all sit down together and eat. I loved it, and now I love Lew, too. He loves me right back, but he also loves bacon.

Lew gives me gifts all the time. He’s generous and loving, and he says that I give him what exactly he needs and what he’s rarely gotten. He has my unconditional love and support, and now I can give him a sandwich. It's not much of a gift maybe, but it's what I have to give him. That’s how I end up getting up very early to fry bacon, furtively and with the window shut so no one else could smell it. I have some soft white bread and a little gravy made from the drippings and that's enough to make a sandwich.

I did eat one single slice, and, oh, it was good. I eat it with my eyes shut. I could almost be in the kitchen of my childhood home with the people who’ve loved me since I was born.

But anyway, I make a sandwich, wrap it in wax paper and tie it up with twine. It goes back into the basket which I still have; the muslin was turned into bandages. I need to find a ride, and make an excuse, and travel on a bumpy road for a long time in order to take it to him, but that’s what you do, right? If you love someone, you want to do the little things for him, you want to give him every good thing you can.

I feel like little red riding hood with my basket of food; I feel like I’ve wandered into a den of benign wolves when I find him. The men tease me until I blush, and they taunt Lew, too, but it was all good-natured. I swear I’ll never understand boys.

“I brought you an early lunch,” I say, settling on the arm of his chair and crossing my legs. My basket rests on my lap.

“You came all this way to bring me food? There’s food here.” He says, but his eyes are warm and he’s smiling openly. He’s pleased that I’ve brought him a present despite the commentary and the whistling.

“Open it.” I’m almost bouncing. I want to see his face when he opens my present.

He does, and he grins, and he stuffs a huge bite into his mouth. Almost half of the sandwich is gone when he looks up at me. I’m watching him indulgently, happy that I could give him something to enjoy.

“Do you want a bite?” He asks almost guiltily. It’s hard to give up even a piece of the best food you've eaten in weeks, even to someone you love.

I shake my head. “No, that’s yours.”

“Did you get any?”

“A little.” My small smile is lascivious.

“Don’t be cockapert.”

“Don’t _you_ be cockapert.” I kick at his leg gently.

A smile blooms across his face. “Can’t help it. It’s an involuntary reaction.”

“Well-played, Lew.” I smother a giggle. He is a smart ass and I love it.

He eats his sandwich and rubs his belly when he’s finished. Lew lets out a loud groan gets to his feet and stretches, his arms far above his head and his back arched. I think he’s adorable. He leans down to kiss the top of my head.

“You gave me a bacon sandwich, I’m going to give you bacon kisses.” He does, right in front of everyone, and I blush again at the catcalls, he grins widely and I swat at him. Lew only kisses me again and this time he gathers me up in his arms. Someone tells us to get a room and I can feel him trying not to laugh against my lips. The early morning, the long ride, the teasing, getting a single rasher of bacon myself? All worth it.

And that’s it, it’s time for me to go, and besides, he has briefings to attend. So he kisses me one last time and we part ways. Lew walks to the door with me and watches me skip down the steps. I think he wants to make sure I have a ride back. He sees that I do, the driver salutes him and Lew salutes back and then gives me a little wave. He ducks back inside leaving the door to swing slowly closed on its own.

Before the door shuts, I hear someone teasing him again, and then his reply, “Oh, shut up. I don’t see any pretty girls bringing _you_ sandwiches.”

“There’s no ‘girls’ bringing you sandwiches, it’s just the one.”

“It doesn’t matter that there’s only one when she’s the right one.”

I let out a little squeak and hug myself. I twirl on the sidewalk and flush red when I see the private driving the truck laughing at me. He winks at me when I climb up into the cab and I try to act like a grown-up. It falls apart when we both start chuckling. He starts the truck and it rumbles to life; we’re on our way. I feel incredibly light, nearly completely happy.

The ride back seems much shorter than the ride out.


	22. Chocolat Chaud

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's actually supposed to be something in between here, but I'm still working on it.
> 
> Chocolat chaud is French hot chocolate, and it is nothing at all like the hot chocolate that comes from packets. You put way too much whipped cream on top and a dust a little cocoa powder . . . delicious.
> 
> Bichette is literally a small doe, but it means darling, too.

"I don’t have any sandwiches today. Just me.” I’m perched on the counter where he set me. I’m the very picture of a lady:  knees demurely together, ankles crossed, hat in place and coat neatly buttoned. I’m a lady to mid-calf, where my boots start. My sad little shoes have finally worn out.

“I still think I’m getting the better end of the deal.”

“Oh, and this.” I pull a little white box from my pocket and open it. I’ve got exactly one truffle for us to share. Lew plucks it from the box and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. “Hey! That was for both of us!”

He grins at me, his teeth stained with the chocolate. “Alright, I’ll share with you.” He kisses me again, and this time it’s no small kiss hello. It’s sweet, teasing and I laugh into his mouth. He laughs, too, a dark liquid chuckle, not the bitter sound I heard earlier.

“I only have a few minutes.”

“That’s not usually a selling point,” I tease.

“Now? Right here?” I nod in response. All of our words come in whispers between chocolate-tinged kisses. He sucks at my neck and murmurs wetly in my ear. “ _Ma petite pute douce_.”

“What did you just call me? I’m your sweet little what?” I’m going to have a mark on my neck. I’ve made it to twenty-four without ever having a love bite. Oh, well.

“It’s, uh, a not-very-nice way to say whore, Rissy.” He looks almost sheepish.

I nip him in that sensitive spot right below his ear and behind his jaw. “Call me one and I’ll act like one,” I whisper. I’m already scooting towards him, spreading my knees so he’s between them. Nipping again, if I’m going to be marked, he will be, too.

“ _Rissy, ma bichette, mon c_ _œur, tu es ma bonne petite pute, mais seulment ma pute._ ”

And with that, I grab at his belt, unbuckling it and unbuttoning his flies, reaching for him. Oh God, he’s hard and ready and I want him inside me. I wrap myself around him, clutching him to me, holding him in the cage of my limbs. “Hurry, hurry,” humidly into his ear. Lew’s fingers bite into my hips even through my coat. There’s no heat here. He holds me in place, my ass half hanging off the counter, and thrusts into me. We have to whisper. “I wish you were naked, Lew, I wanna see you.”

He growls low in his throat. “Wanna see you, too. Wanna look at you, Rissy, I wanna--“

“Shh, Lew. Hurry,” my voice hitches, “hurry, love.” We’re moving together, crushed together so our movements are small, but I can feel him stiff inside me. “God, you feel so _good_.” I press my face into is neck, and clench around him.

“Oh, good girl, good girl, hold me in.” He groans into my hair. We’re both still completely dressed, just clothing opened or moved aside, even my coat is still on. If anyone came around the corner, he might not see anything, but it would be painfully obvious what we’re doing. I squeeze him again, and it earns me another quiet growl. “There’s my good girl, keep going--“

“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, feels good, hurry, Lew, hurry,” and then, “Oh-oh, love you, love you.”

“Oh shit, oh fuck, oh Rissy, Rissy, my good girl.” A warm wetness fills me up, thick and sticky in my underwear. For one moment, we’re still, Lew murmuring at my ear, love words and curses while he’s still inside me. I get one last good girl from him, and then there are boots in the hall. Quickly, quickly, I smooth my dress, covering myself. Lew tends to his belt and buttons, so that by the time Harry comes in we’re put right again.

We’re both laughing, yes, and flushed, but that _could_ be just from kissing. I cross my legs, ladylike, and smile prettily and modestly.

“What’d you ever do, Nix, that you got a pretty girl to bring you sandwiches and chocolate?”

“I don’t know, but I fully intend to keep on doing it, whatever it is.”

“Is there any more chocolate? They said you had a whole box.”

“I did. I left it with the guys, though. Maybe they left some.” I doubt it, tough. It was French chocolate, from an actual chocolatier. The chocolatier is an old man with a young grandson, a little boy who had gotten lost, and whom Lise and I returned home. Thus, the chocolatier is a friend, and a generous one at that.

“Damn locusts. I’m gonna hafta hurry,” he pauses and turns to Lew. “I bet Rissa saved some of the good stuff for you, didn’t she, Nix?”

“That she did,” Lew agrees. He grins and I shake my head, stifling my giggles.

“Lucky bastard.” Lew shrugs his shoulders and Harry leaves on his quest for candy.

“I have to go. Work, briefings, war and all that.”

“Intelligence shit?”

“Exactly. Intelligence shit.” Lew takes my elbow to help me down.

I lean towards him so my mouth is at his ear. “I think I’m the lucky one, Lewis.” I slide down until my feet are back on the floor. We leave, he holds the door open for me.

He stops, kisses me, soundly, firmly, and puts his hands on my shoulders. I look up at him, feeling small and protected. Ridiculous in the middle of a war zone, but here we are. “I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too.”

And then we part ways, him to his briefing, me back to my ride. We both walk quickly; it’s not entirely safe to stay in one place too long. The distance between us grows, he turns a corner and I can’t see him anymore. I get to the truck that’s going to take me back to the hospital.

The private who’s driving comes around to help me up, holding my arm, just below the place where I can still feel Lew’s fingers.                                                                                   


	23. Damn Lemons

This ‘lemon drink’ is disgusting and it’s so acidic that it burns my lips. However, I am also so tired of plain water that I can almost convince myself it tastes okay. Maybe. If that.

I’m sitting cross-legged with my legs tucked under me on a moth-eaten velvet settee, facing Dick and waiting. There’s a cheery little fire lighting the planes of his face and a dim lamp in the corner of the room lending everything a warm glow. This would be homey, cozy even, if I hadn’t just had such a day. I’ve had enough of death and dying, enough of men, sometimes boys, really, bleeding, calling for mothers or wives, tired of being wrist- or elbow-deep in someone else’s flesh only for them to stop breathing or for his heart to give out. I was a baby nurse in Chicago. When it was sad, it was really sad, but it was for the most part pure joy. Joy. I can hardly even remember what that feels like. Even ‘happy’ is tinged with sadness here. I used to think maudlin and melancholy were romantic, what pretty little lies I used to tell myself when I was young and naïve, before I knew what heartbreak was.

The door bangs open and he lurches inside. He’s already drunk and bleary eyed and pissed off to boot. When he sees us sitting together, Lew’s eyes narrow and become accusatory. “That’s sweet, the pair of you all cuddly in the dark. Sorry to barge in on you.”

“I was waiting for you!” I’m coiled so tight it comes out shrewish and high-pitched. And besides we were on opposite ends of the little sofa. Talking about cows and spring planting. And fertilizer. Hardly sweet nothings. There was no cuddling involved, either, no touching at all, in fact.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you two can have each other. I don’t care.” His eyes are brimming, though, and his hand is a fist around the neck of his bottle.

“Hey, Nix, don’t talk to her like that. No one did anything.”

“Not yet, you mean.” Don’t I love him even when he’s petulant? Of course I do, but even I have my limits.

Dick and I both get up, but I turn towards the fireplace and put a hand to my brow. I don’t want to cry but the tears are there anyway, burning the corners of my eyes. Today can just go fuck itself. Three. I lost three today, and I need comfort, not this. And yet, what I need is Lew--and Heaven knows what he’s seen or done today.

His eyes are stormy and belligerent and I can tell mine are like stones, no melted chocolate here. “I was waiting for you. Here. Where you’re staying. That is all.”

He doesn’t say anything, just clenches his jaw and lets out a breath of air.

“I was talking to your friend, and sitting with him, yes, not _cuddling_ , and waiting for you.”

I want the aspirin in my bag, my head aches. When I reach for it, he says, “Well, here I am. Are you leaving now that I’ve interrupted your little chat?” The venom in his voice startles me and makes me knock my glass off the table. It falls to the floor and shatters; the carpet swallows the lemon drink. Well, good on the carpet. Better it than me.

At the same time, Dick says, “Nix--” but I interrupt him, holding up my hand.

“I’m not her.”

“Christ. Are you staying or are you going?”

“I’m not her. I’m not,” I am getting louder and I don’t care that men are gathering in the doorway, stopping whatever they were doing to witness the sordid spectacle we’re making. “I wouldn’t leave you, not unless you wanted me to. You can’t give me away, though. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Fuck, are you going?”

“I’ll go if you want me to. I’ll leave and I won’t bother you again. But I won’t unless you tell me to, so if you want me to leave, you have to tell me to do it.”

“Why are you even here?” He’s all belligerence with bottomless needy eyes. Apparently, today hasn’t been kind to anyone, and it’s not done giving yet. He needs me as much as I need him. And even though I know this, I can’t be calm enough to be kind, so I have an emotional outburst instead.

“Goddammit, because I love you,” I spit out. “Because, God help me, I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life.” I’m yelling now and I just don’t fucking care, throwing my bag down and stalking past him towards the hallway. I’m not even sure where I’m going, I just need to move. “I just needed you, okay? No one else, just you. You are the only person I want right now, lucky girl that I am.” I stamp my foot like I’m six again.

When I try to stride past him, he grabs me and hauls me up his body, putting a bruising kiss on my lips. His arms are like a cage and I struggle against him until I’m not struggling anymore, instead clutching at him and wrapping my legs around his waist. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes and desperation. And then he’s groping my ass and we’re kissing, and his stance is comically wide because he’s drunk and holding me up.

It seems like a long time before I hear people shuffling, moving, and I’m mildly embarrassed, but it’s been a day and I just don’t have it in me to care about one more thing. Lew steps forward with me still in his arms and stumbles and we fall onto the settee, sending a puff of dust into the air. Lovely. Now I’m on my back with him on top of me, my dress rucked up with his body between my thighs. I can only guess what this looks like. Now people will know what it looks like when we--

Out in the hall, someone clears his throat. We slowly sit up, extricate ourselves from our sprawl. The room and doorway are empty. Cross-legged again, I turn to face him. But with Lew, I’m not at the opposite end of the sofa, we’re as close as we can get, me practically in his lap. He leans down so our foreheads are touching, and I whisper, “I’m not her and I won’t leave you, not ever. And even if you told me to, I’d love you all my life. And I’d wait to see if you wanted me to come back.” I’m crying, tears running down my face quietly, no sobs or shudders. “I’m not her and I love you and I am lucky.”

“What happened to you today?”

“I, uh, had three people die on me today. Three. Rob. Septicemia. I mean, we knew it was going to happen, but it was today. The other two were too badly wounded. One of them was only nineteen. Dr. Watney says he and I shouldn’t work together anymore. We have a black cloud following us or something.” There’s only five or six years between that boy and me, but I feel about a thousand years old. When I was nineteen, I was worried about grades and if Johnny would ever propose. “Nineteen, Lew. So young. My hands were in his belly and he was crying for his mother.”

He swallows and kisses my tears away. “I’m sorry. Sorry. Today, well, I can’t tell you, but…I’m fucking glad today is over.”

“It’s not, though. There’s more. Listen, I’m going to have to leave, I’m being sent back to Paris for a bit--I don’t want to go, but I don’t have a choice.” I’m whispering, miserable.

“When?”

“Soon, next week. Eight or nine days.”

“Why?”

“Why it’s me? Not sure. Does it matter?”

He sighs and falls back against the sofa. “Shit.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

His hands fumble in my hair, pulling at the pins. He’s hurting me but I let him do it anyway. Finally, it tumbles down around my shoulders and he plays with it, winding the dark strands around his fingers.

“Clarissa?” He draws me close, flush against him, our faces just inches apart. “I love you. So much. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. S’okay.” His mouth is soft and warm, generous and greedy at the same time.

He brings our foreheads back together, his hands in my hair, cupping the back of my head. I’m tired, no fight left in me. Just drained, spent.

“Rissy,” he whispers, “what about a bath?”

I nod, eyes still closed.

“They’ll begrudge us, but no one will say anything. To you, at least.”

“Okay.”

The water isn’t quite warm enough or deep enough and the bathtub is too small, but we’re in it together. There’s no funny business in the tub, just us washing away the grime of the day and whispering loving nonsense. His bed is also really too small for two people, even if they don’t mind sleeping close, but there we are anyway after we make love, him half on top of me, covering me, and it’s too warm, but it’s Lew so I don’t care. Besides, in a week or so, I won’t be able to be here at all, so I’ll take whatever I can get now.

The next eight days pass by too quickly, the way they do when you’re trying to hang on to each moment.

And the last night, I reluctantly untangle myself from him in the too-small bed and get up and start to dress.

“You’re not staying?” I can’t and he knows I can’t, but it’s a way to let me know he wants me here with him.

“I can’t. I need to leave so early. I’m already supposed to be back.”

“Wait a minute, I’ll walk with you.”

I sit on the bed next to him. “Don’t, okay? I want to say good night right here and remember you like this, all warm and cute and tousled and well-loved. Give me a hug and a kiss and I’m gonna leave, but I’m not leaving you, okay? I love you. Stay here where it’s warm.” My voice is dangerously shaky, my hands trembling. I’ve been able to see him so much since we’ve both been here, in the same place, and I’m not ready for it to end. I bite my lip and card my fingers in his dark hair, trying to memorize his face the way it is right this moment.

His face looks hurt until I explain, “I can’t say good-night again. I don’t want to cry in front of you and have that be the last thing you see.”

“Rissa, I love you and it’s gonna be okay. This is just for a little while, and then--” He swallows. “It’s not an ending. Good-night, not good-bye.”

There are hugs and kisses and tears and good-nights, and plenty of I-love-you’s and it’s-okay’s thrown in for good measure. I pull the blankets over him and turn off the lamp, kiss his forehead where the burn mark used to be. And then I leave the room and shut the door quietly, and only let out a choked sob once I was far enough down the hall that he couldn’t hear me.

It’s Dick who drives me back and he’s quiet while I cry--cry so hard it’s ugly--only putting a hand on my shoulder with a little squeeze once we’ve stopped and I’m ready to get out. I’ve been so emotional; I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

“You’re late. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think they’ll care. My stuff is all ready to go.” I look up at the sky. The stars are so beautiful but so remote and uncaring. And even if they do care, they’re too far away to make any difference in our little lives here on earth. “Tell him not to listen to me. Tell him to come to the train station in the morning, but only if he can actually go.”

“I will.”

“I’ll miss him. I love him.”

“I know. He knows. He’s different since you, with you.”

I let out a choked cry and Dick comes around to help me out of the Jeep. “It’ll be okay. Nix loves you.” Dick takes my arm and for a bare moment I’m taller than him, before I step down onto the pavement.

“This is for him then,” I say, and kiss his cheek, “and this is for you.” I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, barely at his lips, but it’s chaste and he hugs me. “You’re a good friend. Lord knows where he’d be without you.”

“Lord knows where any of us would be without each other.”

He’s right. Sometimes it’s all you have, most times it’s all that matters. I give him a tired smile that really isn’t much of a smile at all. “Good night.”

“Good night, Rissa.”

I don’t say good-bye to anyone anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

I can’t sleep. And then it gets so late that even if I do fall asleep, I won’t be able to wake up in the morning. Better to just stay awake and sleep on the train.

It’s quiet, peaceful with everyone else asleep, even Lise breathing deeply in her bed across the room. Her suitcases are next to mine. She’s happy to go, her James is in Paris, but she’s sad for me, and for Lew. Sometimes we play, she and I, that this is still high adventure, but it’s only to cover the never-ending heartache. After all, you can’t go around crying all the time. I love her, my laughing French friend who wears her engagement ring on a chain around her neck. She also wears her laughter like a shield to protect her heart that’s far too tender to do all that’s asked of her. She would say the same about me, I suppose.

I sit on my cot. It’s small, plain white metal bars and vaguely reminiscent of my childhood bed, but this mattress is both much thinner and much lumpier at the same time. The window pane is cool on my cheek and I regard the stars again. They are the same ones that shine over home, over Paris, and over one Lewis Nixon, who is hopefully asleep in his bed, warm and comfortable.

It strikes me that sometimes in life, you come across certain people, and it’s an honor that they even think well of you, let alone call you a friend, or love you a little, or maybe even with their whole heart and soul.

The winter sunrise was spectacular. Lew was there to see me off at the train with tiny white flowers that weren’t muguet, but the closest thing he could find. He had them since yesterday; he hadn’t planned on listening to me at all.

 

* * *

 

 

I was in Paris for six or seven weeks before I saw a doctor myself. Six or seven very long weeks in which I was exhausted and sick and didn’t feel like eating anything. At first Lise teased me for being lovesick, and then she became concerned, and then she finally demanded that I see a doctor or she would carry me to one herself. So, I went. I was tired. Everyone was tired. I felt sick. Who wouldn’t? I’m up to my elbows in burns and wounds and flesh nearly every day. Who would want to eat after that?

I did have good days after all. Shopping in Paris with Lise, giggling and buying pretty underthings for the day I’ll see Lew again, and I couldn’t get enough bread. And, oh croissants. And chocolate. And the little dish of ice cream I eat every Saturday as a treat. Little luxuries compliments of Captain Nixon, who writes postcards and letters and who calls me on Sunday evenings. Very short calls that I took on the ‘phone in the hall, but hearing his actual voice made such a difference.

And I was busy. So you’ll have to forgive me that I didn’t realize that, well, things weren’t exactly on schedule. The cardinal’s visits hadn’t been particularly regular for a long time, what with stress and not eating all that well. So, I didn’t even think of it until the doctor asked, “When was your last menstrual period?”

It was March, nearly April, springtime in Paris when I saw the physician. It had been right before Christmas the last time it had started. It had been early January when Lew and I made love in the snow, when I’d pulled him up against a tree in a copse at the edge of a field. We went on a walk at dusk, and maybe my hands wandered a bit after I told him I was cold and he put an arm around me. It was hardly one-sided, though, with both of us trying to stay as covered as possible while still trying to reach each other’s fun parts. Thank heavens for long skirts and long wool stockings. And greatcoats that can almost-but-not-quite wrap around two people. Our breaths plumed when we kissed and sighed and panted while the sun was setting. I should have known better. I’d always been as mindful as I could be of the dates, but a walk in the snow seemed so innocent. So much for that.

“Miss?” His face is narrow, somehow sallow and pasty at once. Wispy hair and wispy moustache, unforgiving blue eyes, a bitter angel, sitting in judgement.

“Oh, um, December. Just before Christmas.”

“And have you had—?”

“Yes,” I rush to answer, my cheeks burning.

His eyes shift toward my hand, my bare ring finger. His face stays impassive when he asks “And how many partners have you had?”

“Um, just the one.” Anyone else is too long ago to count, right? I can’t think of any reason to tell him anything that will make him think any less of me than he obviously already does.

He nods, writing something down. I hate him, vehemently and unreasonably. I miss Dr. Watney, who would have teased me, but treated me like a person.

“All right, undress, please, and I will examine you.”

It’s awkward and strange and a bit painful, and my head is spinning because I already know what’s been causing all my symptoms.

The doctor pokes and prods while his nurse watches and then he feels my belly, which is honestly still mostly flat. He takes a measurement from the top of my pelvis and glances at the nurse, saying something in French so quickly I don’t understand it. I feel thick and stupid. Once upon a time I was a baby nurse. I should have known. I ought to have known to at least be careful. He’s finally done and I can dress again. The nurse takes blood, gives me a cup for urine and sends me to the bathroom. My skin is pale in the mirror above the sink; there are shadows under my eyes. I’m too thin.

Then, I go into the doctor’s office. His desk is huge. I sit in the small chair in front of it, feeling like a little girl in the principal’s office, like I’ve done something naughty. I suppose I have, at that.

He looks at me over his glasses. I still hate him. He’s insufferable, judgmental. “You are with child. Of course, we must wait for the tests to confirm. But we know you are going to have a child.”

“When? How far along, do you think?”

“End of Septembre. You are about three months gone, I think.”

So, it was January in the snow. This child was conceived in love and laughter under a starry sky. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

The walk back is a blur. Lise and I share a room in the dormitory attached to the hospital. She finds me there, in my low iron bed, crying. She’s alarmed.

“Rissa? Rissy?” She’s the only one besides Lew who ever calls me that. “What is wrong?”

She sits on the bed and I roll over to face her. She gives me her handkerchief and smooths back my hair.

“Nothing!” I wail. “Everything!”

“Which is it? Nothing or everything?”

“It’s both! Oh God, Lise, I’m going to have a baby!”

Her eyes widen and then she smiles and it’s wide and real and genuine. “ _Un_ _bébé_! Congratulations! It won’t be easy, _non_ , but it’s life, in your belly. You and Lew made a baby.” She puts a slim hand on my stomach.

I know what I’ll do. There was never any question of my having the baby, of course, but I know I’ll keep him or her, no giving this child up for adoption. I’ll be a mother. I’ve had enough of death and dying and loss. Whatever else happens, I’ll have my baby, our baby, and I’ll do everything I can to protect him or her. Suddenly, I’m completely enamored of this tiny person. I’m terrified, yes, but in awe, too. I’ve missed Lew so much, and now I’m carrying a piece of him with me. I don’t know what will happen between us, but whatever it may be, we have a child together. And he loves me, right? I mean, I know he does, but I don’t know if he’ll want a ready-made family so soon after…well, after.

Her letter came as sort of a relief, after a fashion. Of course, he was hurt, no one wants to be put aside, but it opened possibilities for a future for us. I hate to see Lew hurt, and he was, and betrayed, suffering the loss of his house, his dog, and his child, and her, too, in a way. I don’t know what kind of woman could keep a child from her father, but I won’t be one of them. He’ll know, he’ll be able to make his own decision about what he wants.

It’d been a secret little fantasy of mine that we’d go home together. That I’d be his girl in New York or New Jersey or wherever he goes and that we’d get married once everything was all sorted out. Visions of dancing and cocktails and late suppers and the theatre. Pretty dresses and pretty shoes. A job, my own apartment, and Lew, my love. Life, at home, in peacetime together. An engagement party, a spring wedding, white dress, lacy veil, real-butter-and-sugar cake with buttercream frosting. A honeymoon, a house, a puppy--then babies. We’d never talked about it, mind you, in any kind of specific sense, just in a vague when-we-go-home sort of way. He always says we and us.

Nowhere in my fantasy is there an out-of-wedlock baby. And even if he got down on one knee right now, this very minute, we couldn’t get married anyway. To anyone on the outside, our story will change from finding each other and falling completely and hopelessly in love to a sordid affair and an accidental pregnancy and him being obligated to me.

And yet, here we are. There’s a child growing inside me, a sweet baby who’s there because Lew and I met and loved one another and one night we went for a walk and I teased him too much and neither one of us could wait until we got back to a bed or any kind of protection. The snow glittered under the starlight and Lew told me he’d love me forever. Nothing dirty or tawdry, just love. God, I miss him so much.

“Here, _chère_ , you have a letter.” She gives me a v-mail envelope and I open it.

‘Dear Clarissa,’ it reads, ‘First, I miss you and I love you and I want you here with me…’ The middle is filled with loving nonsense, and even though his penmanship is almost perfect, I think he must have been part way in the bottle when he wrote it because it’s sappy and the tiniest bit off-color in places and completely filthy in other bits. He obviously does not care what the censors think. I love it.

He signed it Your, Lew, his name scrawled with a flourish and a bunch of X’s and O’s scribbled underneath. His handwriting fails at the very end with “I want real kisses” trailing off unevenly.

Oh, he loves me. Later, I write him back, send him a snapshot of Lise and me smiling madly over chocolat chaud and macarons in some café and one other picture of me alone. Lise caught me in profile in front of the window. My eyes are shut and lips slightly parted. The effect is very pretty, in reality, I think I was telling her that we were out of milk.

His letter to me goes in my growing stack, tied up in blue ribbon. Mine to him goes out in the morning mail, all gossip and loving words and snapshots, no mention of the baby. I can’t tell him in a letter.


	24. Visitors in Hats

Even at night, it’s not dark in Paris, they call it the City of Light for a reason. That’s where I was in February of 1945. I was working in a hospital there, rehabilitation. It’s cleaner work than I’ve had in a long time, and while I am grateful for that, I miss my friends, and I feel like I was more useful where I was. But who am I to complain? It would be ridiculous.

It’s lovely, beautiful, romantic, even in February, even though I’m alone. It _is_ Paris. And there are so many handsome men. Sometimes it’s nice, seeing men who aren’t wounded or dirty. But there’s only one man who really matters to me, and I miss him.

This all happened on a Thursday, so late it was nearly Friday. It was after I came to Paris, obviously, but before I got that one little piece of important news, so I was still blissfully ignorant of my condition.

 

* * *

 

 

I’m done for the night, no more patients and no more hospital for the next three days. I want to go home, well, back to the rooms I share with Lise. A hot bath and a warm bed await me, I only need to stop at the tiny bistro across the street to pick myself up some supper first. I’m on my way there, coming down the hospital steps, thinking only of my croque monsieur and steak frites, when I see a man out of the corner of my eye. He’s watching me, whoever he is.

He’s leaning against a column and lit from behind so I can only see him in profile. He’s in a garrison cap and an Ike jacket, the tip of his cigarette glows orange in the dark. There’s something very familiar about his posture, the set of his shoulders and the way he holds that cigarette and brings it to his mouth. I take a step closer and then I rub my eyes. My heart beats faster in my chest and I let out a yelp before breaking into a run.

Lew swings me around in a circle and my feet come up off the ground. I squeal until he smothers it with a kiss.

“Let me look at you.” I twirl for him, in my white nurse’s dress under my old navy coat. My cap is still pinned in my hair. “You’re cute, Rissa. Adorable.” He can’t stop smiling, but then, neither can I. He’s pleased with his surprise.

“How-how are you even here?”

“Your friend knows your schedule, and she also knows how to reach me. Lise is worried about you, she thought you could use a little R & R.” He kisses me again. “And if she’s worried, so am I.”

“I’m fine, I’m good.” I point across the street. “I was going to get some food.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, “Not from there, anyway. You, miss, are coming with me.”

“Lew, I don’t have any things. I’m all dirty and hospital-y.”

“One, you’re beautiful. Two, I have your things waiting for you. All you have to do is come with me.”

“I think I can manage that. I am hungry, though.” And I am hungry for once.

We walk into the foggy night and Lew hails a cab for us.

“Don’t worry, I’ll feed you.” His arm comes around me and he whispers in my ear, “Don’t I take care of you?” A car finally stops for us, sliding up to the curb and I hum happily into Lew’s shoulder before he reaches to open the door for me. Once we’re in the backseat, he holds out his arm and I nestle into his side. He smells like soap and smoke. I peek up at him, and my eyes meet his because he’s already looking at me. He grins down at me, I wrinkle my nose up at him.

It’s only then that Lew leans forward and tells the driver where we’re going. I watch his mouth wind around the French syllables and I’m fascinated. Then he’s back, smirking in the three seconds it takes me to get into his lap. And then, well, I’m affectionate and he’s a man, and we haven’t seen one another for a bit.

The car stops and we get out onto the sidewalk, which is made a bit more difficult as we’re tangled together. The place he’s brought me is small, elegant. The lobby is all warm yellow light and rich polished woods. The girl at the counter is cool and blonde, sleek and professional when she welcomes us to wherever we are.

Up in the elevator and down the hall, and into the room, which is lovely. The carpet is deep, soft and grey. That’s the room, charcoal grey and pale pink and lilies of the valley in mercury glass vases. There’s a little velvet bench at the foot of the bed. Two bags sit there side by side, Lew’s and mine.

“Lise packed a bag for you,” he explains.

There’s also a box on the bed in the middle of the bed.

“What’s that?” I ask him.

“Why don’t you open it and see?” Whatever it is, he’s pleased about that, too. Lew comes around to help me out of my coat and he throws it over the armchair at the side of the big bed. I take off my ugly nurse’s shoes and kick them away. And this bed, I have to tell you, is Heaven when I climb up onto it. I could curl up on it and sleep right now, but I want to open my present.

The box is slick and white, tied with pale blue ribbon, and it’s huge. Lew sits in the other armchair, watching me. He’s bought me a dress, and a long filmy night-gown, underwear, and at the bottom, another dress. It’s black satin, with long gloves to match and little satin kitten-heeled shoes. It’s like Christmas morning, except I haven’t anything to give him.

“Thank you.” The words don’t seem adequate, but I can’t think of anything else to say.

“You’re welcome. Why don’t you go take a bath? I’ll order us some food.”

I get up to go into the bathroom but he calls me back. “Here, Rissy, take this.” He gives me my new night-gown and pushes me towards the door to the bath.

The bathroom is unbelievable. Marble counters and gilt-edged mirrors, deep bathtub, and a little water closet. There’s a basket of fancy soaps and bubble baths on the vanity, all in scents that I love: muguet and lemon and roses. The water is hot and the towels are thick and fluffy. When I’m clean and dry, I pull my nightgown over my head and it falls down around me.

My reflection stops me. It’s so filmy that it’s nearly sheer. Nipples clearly visible, and the dark shadow between my legs as well. I feel shy, which is ridiculous, Lew’s seen me naked a million times, he’s seen me with my clothes rucked out of the way, he’s seen me begging for him, but he’s never seen me wrapped up like a gift. This is lingerie, a far cry from my usual cotton underpants. I bite my lip and resist the urge to cover my breasts with my hair and clasp my hands in front of me.

And I’m glad I did because I get to see him go slack-jawed when I come out of the bathroom. He lets out a low whistle and comes to me. He gives me the kind of kisses that leave your lips swollen and bruised, his hands on my bottom until my belly growls. I’m actually hungry for once, and I wish I wasn’t. There are other things I want to do now, but supper is already set out, plates under silver domes.

“Here, let’s eat, love,” His arm is still around me, he’s cupping my breast.

He pulls out a chair for me and I sink into it, squeezing my thighs together. I’m uncomfortable, wanting him. I don’t want to waste time eating, at least until he takes the lid off my plate. Steak. He’s bought me a steak. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything that looks so good. Food that looks so good, anyway.

We eat. He looks completely relaxed, I’m wound so tight I could scream. Lew feeds me little bites, pours me my dinner wine. There’s a little ghost of a smile on his lips when he notices my squirming. “Ladies sit still, sweetheart. With their knees together.” I blush and cross my ankles. But then his finger grazes my nipple, presses, and I whimper.

“Keep eating, Rissy, you’re getting too thin.” He pinches me just under my ribs and I glare at him, but I do eat. The meal is too god to rush through, but I’m too impatient to linger over it either. Lew laughs at me, but not unkindly.

When my food is gone, I put my fork and knife down almost defiantly. “There, all done,” I announce.

“Do you want dessert?” he asks mildly. “We could have cake or chocolate mousse…I’ll just call down--“

I interrupt him with a frustrated noise and he can’t hide the smirk that’s playing around the corners of his mouth. Lew gets up and comes around to me, pulling my chair out and kneeling in front of me. His mouth works from my hip and up my ribs. I feel his lips moving against my skin, “Or, I could, you know, take you to the bed over there and--“

“Oh, yes, please.”

He lifts me up over his shoulder in one smooth motion and I let out a squeal. We’re both laughing when drops me onto the bed and covers me with his body. Our kisses start out messy, he’s still teasing me. But then his mouth moves to my throat and his hand is between my legs. He touches me and whispers how much he missed me, how much he loves me, how much he wants me.

He finds my nipples already peaky, and his fingers find me ready for him, slick and that that small pink knot is already firm. “Look at you, how much you want me. Do you want me, Rissy?” My voice trembles and I whisper that I don’t want him, I need him. Lew’s fingers are deft; he pinches and spreads and teases until I writhe.

My pretty night-gown is first rucked up and then torn off and crumpled on the floor. He’s half in and half out of his uniform and I pull at him, undoing buttons and reaching into his clothes, his hands and his mouth are everywhere. I can’t help but to hold his head to me, pulling at his dark hair, and he moves from my throat to my breasts and belly then lower, kissing and sucking and lapping all the way until I can hardly breathe, let alone think.

He finally twists out of his trouser and underpants and crawls up the bed towards me. He stops, ready, put I pull at his hips, bringing him up farther.

“We’re doing you tonight--“

“I want to taste you. Please. Please, sweetheart.” My mouth is already on him, my arms around his waist pulling him down. He has to lean forward and grab the headboard. His knees are at either side of my chest, he’s still wearing one lone sock. My eyes are shut, I can taste him, hear him, smell him, I don’t need to see.

Lew moves to kiss me and settle between my thighs. “Tell me. You tell me how you want me.” It comes in an undertone from his mouth at my neck. “I gonna make you say it.”

“I want my legs up--” He moves back, lifts my hips, and then he’s all the way in me, hands on me. If I thought that bed was like Heaven before, that was nothing compared to Lew making love to me in it. It’s slow and tender and sweet, and when I’m done trembling underneath him, I burst into tears.

His body is flush against mine, he’s still in me, but still. “What is it?”

“It’s just that I love you so much,” I’m crying and laughing at the same time.

“It’s okay. I love you, too.” He moves and I reach up to kiss him, kissing through all of his sounds, even when he’s no longer kissing back. Then it’s done, and he collapses on top of me and holds on to me so tight that my ribs hurt. I don’t mind at all, though.

Lew props himself up on his elbows to look down at me and then brings his forehead down to touch mine. His mouth is warm and searching, our kisses are mixed with dirty little chuckles.

That is how we made one very cold February night in Paris sultry and almost tropical.

 

* * *

 

The next day we visit the Louvre where we wander among beautiful things. Then comes Notre Dame, and I feel so tiny and insignificant inside a place that has survived so much history. Our footsteps echo under the arches and stained glass. We’re tucked away in a dark corner when I feel Lew’s hand on my bottom. I swat him away and he grins at me shamelessly. “I can’t believe you! We’re in a church,” I hiss and he does nothing but shrug and pull an innocent face. Even Lewis Nixon, my wayward love, is awe-struck in Sainte Chapelle. The light streams in through those amazing windows and we’re bathed in golds and blues and reds.

Lew takes me to lunch at Les Deux Magots, where Hemingway once ate. We watch the world go by from our seat in the window. I’m wearing my new blue dress and my feet are tucked up under me. This is the kind of Paris I never get to see and I’m frankly enchanted by it. I catch Lew watching me from across the table and this time he’s the one with the indulgent expression. “You look about sixteen years old right now,” he says, reaching to push a stray lock of hair behind me ear. I lean my face into his hand and look down at the table. Lew orders our lunch and the table wine, and we eat in the pale winter sunshine.

We visit the Eiffel Tower because you have to, I’ve seen it and walked past it, but I’ve never been in it until now. It’s cold and windy on the highest wplatform, but we stay for a bit anyway, and Lew kisses me there, because you have to do that, too. We wandered back through the Jardin du Luxembourg and it’s beautiful even in the winter. We walk hand-in-hand together out of the park and into the street. The last thing we do before going back is to duck into a little used bookshop. The shelves are crammed full of all kinds of books. I find a copy of _Clarissa_ in English and Lew plucks it from my hands and pays for it.

“You need to get dressed for dinner, Miss,” he says once we finally get back to our hotel. “We have dinner reservations.” I wash quickly and put on my gifted underthings, tiny panties that barely cover my backside and a bra cut so low that my nipples aren’t even covered. I bite my lip, but not out of shyness this time. I want to see what he’ll say.

“You look like Christmas.” His eyebrows are up in his hair.

“I’m not sure what kind of Christmases _you_ used to have.” I’m nearly ready to go, all perfumed and made up, everything is just so. I turn my back toward him, and he pulls up my zipper. I feel very pretty when I look in the mirror, and Lew behind me in his dress uniform is impossibly handsome, gorgeous.

“Do I still look sixteen?”

He shakes his head. “No, kitten, not even a little bit. You look ravishing. Stunning. Exquisite” At first I think he’s teasing, but he’s not, not even a little.

“Where are we going, Lew? Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.” That’s the only answer I get, two words and a raised eyebrow.

Where we go is the Café de la Paix. And then the theater where I rest my head on his shoulder in the dark. And after that, cocktails somewhere small and dimly lit, and the sort of dancing that’s really socially acceptable frottage. When it’s very, very late, almost closer to morning than night, we’re in another taxicab. It’s both dry and warm in the back of the car, so the huge fluffy snowflakes that begin to fall are only pretty, not anything that could hurt us tonight.

Don’t think that I don’t realize that the whole day sounds like something out of a movie. It feels that way, too. It’s one of those memories that’s become sepia tinged, one of the things you remember all the rest of your life. That night is still something that I remember as perfect. I have some snapshots somewhere, but I don’t really need them to see us the way we were that night.

There are messy kisses in the car, and giggling, barely-maintained propriety in the lobby and the elevator. Oh, but once we’re back to our room, we make drunken love, the kind where you’re not afraid to ask for anything, where you’ll do anything.

Later, when we’re both sated and content, I let out a sigh. “I should be ashamed of myself but I’m not.”

“Why would you be ashamed?” Lew’s chocolate eyes are open and candid, and I can’t think of one single reason I would be ashamed at all.

Outside, the sky is still full of snowflakes and misty lights, the stars hiding above them.

 

* * *

 

 

And in the morning, very late in the morning, I wake feeling queasy, and I _am_ ashamed that he finds me crouched over the toilet, retching.

Lew pokes his head in, concerned. “Too much last night?”

“Apparently,” I answer miserably. It passes after a bit, but I still can’t face eggs for breakfast.

We’ve no plans for Saturday, nothing at all. We spend the day lounging. I read my new book. I’ve always loved that book smell, and I hold it to my face for a minute. Lew’s dark head is in my lap, my fingers twining idly in his hair. My finger ghosts over his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, and traces the curve of his lips and the edge of his jaw. My lover falls asleep, his head is heavy and he snores a bit, but I find it endearing.

Lunch and supper are room service again, but we eat in the bed instead of at the table. Much later, when it’s evening time again, he dances me around the room and I twirl, laughing, ridiculous in his boxer shorts and undershirt. Where last night I was all dolled up, tonight I’m all undone. My hair is loose, falling almost to my waist, no make-up, and in men’s underwear.

“You, miss, are beautiful.”

“Even like this?”

“Especially like this, Rissy.” He pulls me to him, holds me so close I can feel his heart thumping under thin white cotton. I shake my head and he nods, turning it into a joke and a caress.

 

* * *

 

 

Then it’s Sunday. Lew needs to leave in the afternoon and I need to go home, too. I’m expected to be at work early on Monday. It’s still bitterly cold, but it’s warm in bed under the blankets.

“I have one more thing for you.”

“Oh, what’s that?”

It’s a camera. “This way you can take pictures and send me some. So I can see you.”

“Lew this is too much. You’re spoiling me.”

“No, it’s not enough.”

And we burrowed under the blankets for a long time, in our own little cocoon hidden from the world.

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, we brave the cold, and Lew takes me back to the shabby little rooms Lise and I share. I leave my bag there, just inside the door. It’s empty, she must be working or out somewhere with her James. I’m almost glad, we can have a tiny bit more time to ourselves. I finally get my croque monsieur from the bistro, and I get to eat it sitting across from Lew.

“I lied.” He pushes a small white box across the table. “ _This_ is the last thing.”

I roll my eyes at him. This really is too much.

“Well, go on, open it,” he encourages me, pushing it closer with one finger. I shake my head and open it. My last gift is a watch. Moreover, it’s his watch.

“But this is yours.”

“I’ll get a new one. You keep this one.” He fastens the band around my wrist, far past the mark on the band that shows where it fit him. His fingers are warm on my skin. I like small shiny things as much as the next girl, but this, this is the best gift.

He wants to say good-bye and leave me with Lise, telling me that he wants me safe and warm.

“Uh-uh, I’ll come to the train station with you.”

That’s exactly what I end up doing. He kisses me on the platform. He actually leans out the window to kiss me again--I told you it was like a movie--and we’re both laughing just a little.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you, too, Lewis.”

“Good.” There’s that one-sided smile that makes my heart flutter and he reaches to touch my face. There are butterflies in my stomach and my knees are shaking. He kisses the tip of my nose and then I kiss him in earnest, shameless, but no one bats an eye at these kinds of displays anymore.

“I’ll see you again soon, Miss Rissy.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’ll try and call you next week. You send me pictures.”

The train’s whistle sounds and I jump. “I will, I will.” I stretch back up for one last kiss. His mouth is warm but the kiss is brief. I step back, and the train begins to move. I wave and stay until it’s gone.

Lew has given me cab fare; the francs clink together in my coat pocket. I walk instead. It’s cold and it’s a long walk, but the air is frosty and clear. I drop some of my coins in the collection box outside a church and pause for a few seconds before I go in.

To be perfectly honest, I’ve never found God during Mass, not even once. Where I have found him, though, is when the church is empty, when first Johnny, and now Lew, is asleep and breathing deeply and peacefully, when my patient lives instead of dying, when a stray sunbeam lights up Lew’s face, when he kisses me, holds me, when we make love. There is so much to be thankful for, even in the midst of this. That’s what my prayers are that day, prayers for the safety of those I love, those I know, and those I don’t, and prayers of thanksgiving.

That night, after Lise and I had tea and a good long gossip, when I’m alone in my low iron bed, I hold Lew’s watch to my ear and listen to its quiet ticking, marking the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the named places are real, and they really are lovely.
> 
> i wish I could have a weekend like that. :)


	25. In Which I am Sorry and He is Not

I have a few days free from work, a train ticket, and a ride. I didn't tell Lew I was coming; I was too scared, terrified really. I haven’t seen him in a while, not since before I was absolutely certain, anyway. This isn't the kind of thing you can write to someone in a letter or talk about on the ‘phone. So here I am, in a dusty truck with some guy who keeps trying to touch my arm. I’d be angry, but the delicate nausea makes it difficult to care about anything else. I don’t know if it’s the fear or the tiny baby in my belly that’s making me feel sick; probably it’s both. So, I’m only faintly amused when this guy touches my elbow _again_. He asks me if I’ll be here long, he knows a nice little restaurant. It’s quaint and the food is good, I would like it. This is the price of looking like a girl again, I suppose. I’m in the blue dress that Lew bought me, my hair pinned up, lipstick. My worn and faded nurse’s dress is packed away for now--no drab brown cotton for me today. Still in boots and cotton socks, though. Swollen ankles, you see. I used to adore pretty shoes, but I was a different girl then.

He pulls the truck up in front of the building and comes around to open the door for me. He takes my arm to help me down, and I let him. I don't want to fall and my knees are shaky. “Do you need anything else, Miss?”

“No, thank you, I'm fine.”

He’s still holding my arm. “I’m Serge--”

“You’re very kind,” I tell him, “but I have to go.” His eyes are kind, green tinged with gold, lake water and a sandy beach. They crinkle at the corners, too. I smile at him, trying to take the sting from the dismissal. He smiles back as I ease my arm out of his grip and walk up the steps. I’m scared and exhausted and so anxious. The truck door slams shut behind me and he drives away, to wherever he was going. I know he told me; he talked quite a bit. I don’t even remember his name. My head aches, pounding in time with my heart, it’s hard to pay attention to anything.

The door is huge, imposing, but I walk in, straight to the orderly’s desk and smile. He looks at me expectantly and I realize how different I must look now. “I’m looking for Captain Nixon?” It comes out as a question. I hold my purse over my belly even though it’s still mostly flat. Probably no one would notice, but I’m nervous. My knees are almost knocking and my hands are trembling so I clasp them together.

His eyes widen in recognition. “Rissa?”

“Yeah, I cleaned up a little.” I try to laugh but it comes out too shrill; people actually turn to look at me, and I flush.

“I’ll call him for you. You can wait over there.” Wooden benches line the hall and I gratefully sink into the cushion, crossing and uncrossing my legs, smoothing my dress. I’m fidgeting, I can’t seem to keep still.

When he comes down the stairs it’s two at a time. He’s happy to see me, smiling, running a hand through his hair so it sticks up in tufts I want to smooth back into place. Dick is behind him looking faintly amused, and yes, it would be funny, in other circumstances, to see Nix moon over one girl, he who once had a different young lady every place he went. He embraces me, grazes my lips with his before kissing me in earnest. At first, I melt into him, but then my back stiffens as I try to hold my belly away from him. However I tell him, it won’t be in the middle of the hall with people milling about. So, I pull back and hug Dick, too, standing on tiptoe to put a kiss on his cheek. I can’t miss the glance that passes between them even in the middle of the exclamations of surprise and the ‘how-are-you’s’. There’s an awkward silence as no one acknowledges that something isn’t quite right. Then I’m just standing there awkwardly with one of Lew’s hands in both of mine. Suddenly, I’m very glad that I took my gloves off and put them in my bag. “Do you have a minute, Lew? I just--I need to talk to you. Alone.”

“Sure, yeah,” he answers, “We can go back upstairs.” A shadow crosses his face, but he puts an arm around me and we go back the way he came. “You look beautiful.”

“Well, a far cry from the last time you saw me, anyway.” I’d been dirty, windblown, straight from the hospital. God-only-knows-what under my fingernails and my hair was all matted and mussed and falling out of its pins. And apparently pregnant, although I hadn’t known it yet.

“You always look beautiful.” We come to a door which he opens for me, holding out his arm to usher me inside. It’s his bedroom. The bed is Army neat, but there are socks and shorts on the floor, ashtrays and empty bottles on every flat surface. The window is open and birds are singing in the afternoon sun. It crosses my mind that I’ll remember this moment for the rest of my life; it’s the last minute before whatever comes next.

Then he kisses me and it chases all thoughts from my head. And I let him because I don’t ever want him to stop kissing me, but it wouldn’t be fair to let him without telling him what I’ve come to say, so I pull back, tenting a hand on his chest and looking down at my feet, running the toe of my boot along the floorboard. I can’t look at his face. “I really do need to talk to you.” I back up, still holding my purse in front of me and I don't stop until I can go no further because the backs of my legs are against his desk.

He nods; his eyes are black. He swallows and looks away, and for a minute I know we’re both thinking the same thing. How he could possibly think I could stop wanting him is beyond me. And me? I’m so scared he’ll be angry, or worse feel obligated and resentful. I don’t want to push him into anything; even though I love him and I know he loves me what I’m about to say changes literally everything.

I take a deep breath letting the air fill my lungs; I can’t put it off any longer, even though I have no idea what I’m going to say, so I just start talking. “Listen, I’m not _asking_ you for anything. I’m telling you because I think you should know. You know, you _know_ , that I don’t care at all, not even a little, about your name or your money or your…” I swallow the lump in my throat and peek up at him through my lashes. His eyes bore into mine, his mouth poised as if to ask a question. “I don't want you to think that I tried to trap you or trick you--”

He shakes his head, not understanding yet what I’m talking about. I put my bag down behind me and splay my hands on my belly, on either side of the slight curve there. With my dress pulled tight across my stomach, I know he can see the roundness that wasn’t there the last time we were together. He knows my body, Lord know he’s seen me in and out of my clothes enough times. Lew's eyes widen and he steps back himself, but he doesn’t say anything at all, so I continue, babbling while my heart lurches in my chest. “I’m sorry. I’m preg--” I interrupt myself, “I’m going to have a--”

“A baby?” His eyebrows are in his hair.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to do anything. Unless you want to, of course. I wouldn’t keep him from you. I mean, I’ll take him home and--” I’m panicking now, like I did when the doctor told me that absolutely, yes, there was a child growing in my belly. That night I cried, clutching my stomach, both terrified and filled with wonder that we had brought a whole new person into being. But now I don’t know what to do, can’t tell what he’s thinking. I can’t look away from him now, waiting for a response while I stammer at him, “I’m sorry–I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m not.” Lew crosses the room in three long strides. His lips are warm and tender against mine, his hand is gentle, caressing my stomach. Sweet relief floods through me and my knees start to buckle. He gathers me to him, supporting me—us--and whispering in my ear. “That’s all, Rissy? That’s all you came all the way here to tell me?”

“Uh, yes. That’s pretty much it.” Although I hardly think telling someone he’s going to be a father qualifies as ‘that’s all.’ I feel like I’m underwater, everything is muted, distorted, and I cling to his body, the only thing that feels solid and real. My heart bounds, his pulse is quick in his neck, causing the ball chain that holds his dog tags to move slightly in time with his heart. The pale lemon spring sun glints off the chain.

“You scared me for a minute there. I thought you were going to tell me something bad.” He swallows. “I thought you were going to tell me you didn’t want--”

“No, never. Not ever that.” I shake my head and whisper, “I was scared, too. I thought you might be angry.” I’m literally shaking in my boots, trembling and overwrought, crying a bit now that it’s done. He kisses the tears away.

“No,” he shakes his head again, smiles tenderly. “Not even that surprised, really. It’s not like we were all that careful.” And, yes, I suppose we do love each other every chance we get. His fingers draw lazy circles on my back, soothing me. “My baby in your belly.”

“Yours, ours. Our baby.”

He brings me to his sofa, pulls my feet into his lap and starts to unlace my boots. When he pulls them off, he scoffs to see that I’m wearing his socks. “I wondered where the hell all my socks went.”

“Sorry. It’s just something I do. You left them one time.” He gives me a look, so I continue. “…and maybe sometimes I steal a pair.” I move to sit in his lap, snuggling, liking his hand on my belly. I’m so relieved. I bury my face in his neck, kissing the tender place below his ear. “Love you.”

“I love you. And you,” patting my stomach and then pausing, “Can I see?”

I nod, murmuring assent, and he unzips my dress, pulling it over my head. Then my slip, which is pretty, too. Silky and lacey, like the brassière and panties underneath. New things I had bought before I was sure, one sunny afternoon when I was only thinking of the fun we might have, wanting to surprise him with something other than plain white cotton. When the slip is off, too, when I’m only in my nearly transparent underthings and his socks, his eyes travel from my belly to my breasts and between my thighs. I peel his socks off of my feet and put his hand back on my stomach.

“You’re going to have a baby.”

I nod, my head on his shoulder.

“When?”

“Five months, maybe. That’s what the doctor said. I can’t really work for much longer, and I don’t know if I can get home before I can’t travel anymore. But I can figure all that out later.”

“We. We’ll figure it out.”

My arms wind around his neck, my mouth close to his ear. “I think it must have happened in that field, the night we went for a walk--”

I can hear the smirk in his voice, “Oh, our romantic moonlit walk under the stars, when you couldn’t keep your little hands to yourself. I was a gentleman.”

“That is not,” I say primly, “quite how I remember it.” It’s hard to be prim, though, when one is almost naked and most definitely pregnant while sitting in her lover’s lap. I giggle giddily, thinking maybe this will turn out to be alright. We’re kissing again, insistently, greedily, eagerly. This time I lean into him, not pulling away at all.

“Can you still--”

“Oh, yes.”

With that he takes me to his bed underneath the window. The sheets and blankets are sun-warmed; it feels so good to stretch out. I kiss him, sucking his lower lip between mine and nibbling at it while his hands are on my back, working on my bra. I can’t wait for him to unclasp it, though, wanting to be touched. My nipples stand out against the pale pink silk, my areolae clearly visible through the lace-edged cups. They’re so exquisitely tender and it’s a double-edged sword; my breasts are so sensitive all the time now, but it feels so goddamn _good_ when he finally cradles one in his hand. I’m moaning like a whore just from his hand on my breast, and when he dips his head to my nipple I’m like a cat--eyes wide, limbs stiff, back arched. He suckles right through my bra, letting his teeth scrape at me lightly, drawing one peaky nipple farther and farther into his mouth while his fingers find the other one. My legs fall open almost on their own, my skimpy panties molded to me, darkening where the wetness has pooled. He turns his attention to the other breast, rasping his tongue there, too, and I pull at his jacket and his shirt, trying to reach warm bare skin.

He sits up to shrug out of his clothes and when he looks down at me, his mouth falls open. “Fuck, Rissy,” he breathes, his eyes darting from my eyes to lips and breasts to between my thighs. My hair has come undone from its pins, tumbling around my shoulders, I know my lips are swollen from his kisses, and damp spots cover my nipples and my panties where I’m so obviously ready for him. His eyes are wide, the pupils dilated making them black. “You look so…lush. I should keep you like this.” He grins, “I’d take a picture, if there was a way that no one else would see it.”

I kneel next to him on the mattress, undoing his buttons and pushing his sleeves down his shoulders, leaving small kisses on his upturned face, before placing my mouth at his seashell of an ear. “Did I ever tell you,” I say, stopping to suck at his neck, “that I know how to develop photos?”

“I didn’t know that,” he growls, clutching the curves of my backside and pulling me to straddle his lap. “Would you let me?”

He cups me, fingers running over the damp silk, tickling and teasing me, then squeezing my folds together. “I’ll let you do whatever you want, Lew, just don’t stop.”  The wet silk is moved aside, he squeezes rhythmically and his fingers play, ever-so-lightly pinching me, finding my little knot, pulling at it and rolling it. I groan when he takes his hand away, and he gives me one more pinch then a flick, and then one more before his fingers slide in.

His arms wrap around my waist, pulling my hips down, and I settle with one leg on either side of him. He’s hard beneath me even through his trousers, his cock a rigid line against me. Lew grips my hips, moving me across his lap while we kiss and cling to one another. I let him move me the way he wants, grinding together. I reach behind my back, pushing my breasts into his face, unclasp my bra and put the scrap of silk and lace aside. He nuzzles me, kissing and suckling, before cupping my breasts. I can feel him smiling around my nipple while he pinches the other.

“What?” I ask him.

He smirks into my breasts, one corner of his mouth lifting as he shakes his head. “It’s just that they’re bigger now,” he says plucking at my nipple before rolling it between his fingers, “I like it.”

“That happens,” I tell him, pushing my fingers up the sleeves of his undershirt, feeling his biceps flex and tense beneath my hands. Then I reach for the hem of his t-shirt, running my hands up and down his sides, down his belly, feeling the muscles in his abdomen jump. I follow the trail of hair leading to his belt buckle and undo it slowly, all the while gazing into his face while he looks up at me. He smiles widely up at me and I grin back, wrinkling my nose at him. The sun streaming through the open window hits his face, lighting tiny gold embers deep in his eyes, and I think how easily I could drown there, how simply and completely I have fallen in love with him. Late spring sunshine falls around us and I wonder if my eyes are lit up the same way Lew’s are.

He moans far back in his throat when I unbutton his flies, reaching into his trousers, into his shorts, taking him in my fist and stroking him, resting my heads on his shoulder. He kisses my neck, groaning against my throat, when I rub the head of his cock first with my thumb, then against the damp silk of my panties. Slowly at first, then faster, wanting to make him feel good, even as the friction builds between my legs, too. I’ve got both hands inside his shorts, stroking and rubbing, loving his gasps and moans at my ear. His bands roam over my back. Lew makes a pleading little noise when I take my hands out of his pants and reach to cup his face, kissing his warm, soft mouth greedily. I try to pull away, but our kissing deepens, him pulling me close until I laugh into his mouth and finally crawl off his lap onto the floor between his thighs.

I unlace his boots without looking at them, peeking at his face from underneath my lashes instead and pulling his socks from his feet. I tug at his hips until he stands so I can drag his pants down his legs so he’s naked before me, all clean white skin and firm muscles that I admire from my place on the floor. Still looking up at him, watching him watch me, I trail tiny kisses along the crease where his leg meets his body, letting my arms go around his waist, kissing the tip before taking him in my mouth.

“You don’t have to…”

“Want to, though,” I murmur, bringing his hands to twine in my hair so he can move me the way he wants. His whole cock moves in and out of my mouth--God, he’s delicious. He sits, dragging me closer, one hand at the back of my head, the other reaching to play with my breasts. My thighs are spread wide apart, and I’m thoroughly enjoying what I’m doing, I can feel my panties soaking against me and I’m longing to be touched, too, greedy girl that I am. “Please touch me,” I beg, “please, please, please.” Pouting at him until he scoops me up, laughing, and lays me down on his blankets.

He pulls my panties down my thighs, off my feet and works his way back up, trailing kisses from my toes up my calves, knees, thighs, until he growls into the curls between my legs. He settles there, kissing and lapping and sucking at the small bundle of nerves, his fingers moving inside me, spreading me open while I writhe under his ministrations, my hands in his hair, holding him to my body, until it’s too much. His hand claps to my mouth, letting me make whatever noise I will despite the open window. And then I’m tugging at his biceps, wanting him on me and inside me, so he crawls up the bed and then pauses over me, taking me by surprise because he’s never, ever unsure of himself in bed. He’ll grab and clutch and pinch and kiss with abandon, lose himself in what he’s doing and what’s being done to him; his lips and tongue and fingers and his body are deft. He’s enthusiastic, shameless, both greedy and generous in his lovemaking, in his fucking, but he’s hesitating now.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, “I mean, I don’t want to squish you.” So, I put my legs up over his shoulders, lifting my bottom for him. He balls up his pillow and shoves it under me. His hands are at my hips, I’m spread out in front of him, all my charms on display, but he’s looking at my face and nothing else.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” I tell him solemnly.

“No, I won’t,” he answers, just as solemn as I was.

It’s then that I grip his forearms, pulling him toward me. He doesn’t come any closer, only puts his hands between my legs, opening me and just looking while I whine low in my throat. Two of his fingers slip into me, so far inside that he brushes against my cervix; his fingers play at it and I groan. I remember the first time he did that, when he pulled his hand back out thinking he’d hurt me because of the noise I made. “No, no,” I’d said, “come back, do it again. I like it.” Now we’re in the warm sunshine, though, not the starlight, and I come back to the present, watching him while he’s intent on me. He stretches me open and I gasp and clutch my own breasts.

“Feels good?”

“Mm-hm.” My hips move, Lew’s fingers working inside me, the thumb of his other hand circling, pressing on my taut pink knot.

“Go on. Go on, sweetheart. Come for me, let me watch you come for me.” He brings his fingers to my lips and I suck my fluids from his fingers greedily. He dips back inside me so deeply, only to bring his hand to his mouth, and then his fingers are back inside me, circling and stroking, prodding gently there. His other hand plucks at me, rubbing and squeezing; I’m swollen and hot, flushed with blood, slick and wet, soaking the fingers working between my legs. Then I’m keening with it, coiled so tight, I clutch at his arms, digging my fingers in, when I see a million tiny stars and fall back, dizzy with it. He smooths my hair, cups my cheek with the hand that was inside me. “Good girl,” he murmurs, “There’s my good girl.”

He’s still kneeling between my thighs and he clutches my hips. I can feel him at the entrance to my body. He leans over me and asks, “Ready?”

I can’t talk yet, so I only nod and give him little moans, opening my legs wider and moving against his cock, reaching down to guide it in. He’s just barely inside when he draws back, the head of his cock teasing, in and out before he thrusts all the way in, as deep as his fingers were. He’s so hard, pushing into my tender, swollen flesh, his hips moving at a brutal pace, and it’s just at the right side of too much for me. My hands are on his chest, feeling him pant while his heart pounds. His eyes screw shut. “Hold me in. Just hold me in,” he demands, so I clench around him while he thrusts.

Then I stop him, moving back, wanting to do something I haven’t before. His cock is rigid and dark pink, wet with my juices, nearly quivering, he can’t stop rocking his hips or making needy sounds while he kneels on the mattress. I crawl forward on my hands, leaving my ass up in the air, to take him in my mouth, cupping him, tasting both of us together until I can only taste him again, lapping at him, before moving down to suck at his balls, too. My hands and mouth are all over him, licking and sucking and kissing; caressing and clutching, rubbing his ass and thighs, wanting to make him feel good in earnest, so far beyond teasing.

When I push him down so he’s sitting, he tries to hold me in place, but I climb onto his lap instead, straddling him and lowering myself onto him. One of my hands in between our legs, the other is at his neck, holding him close. He kneads my breasts, his face between them, before biting my nipples, alternating between them, his hands on my butt, moving me the way he wants. I can feel him tensing under me, his hips bucking erratically, his coloring hectic.

Tenderly, I cup his face, turning him towards me. I put my lips to his ear and whisper to him unsteadily. “Look at me, look at me. I want to see your face when you’re coming in me.” His eyes are stark, the whites showing all around, pupils huge, irises ringed in black, and I swear they’re dappled with stars, constellations of them. He moans in my ear, holds me so tight it hurts, but, God, he’s gorgeous when his orgasm hits him, when he spurts hot inside me. He shudders, stills, shuts his eyes, his lashes inky against his cheeks.

He tries to move, but I cling to him, my face buried in his neck, my lips moving against his throat. “Just stay, stay a minute. Please.”

“Why?” We’re both still breathing hard, trembling a little after the intensity of our sex.

“I just want you inside,” I whisper to him. “I just don’t want to be empty of you yet.”

“Okay, okay,” he mumbles. When he does slip out I sigh. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. We’re still pressed against each other, I can feel his words rumbling in his chest flush against my skin.

It’s only then that he lays me down and covers us with the sheets and blankets and I nestle into his side, sleepy and content. He’s flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. “That,” he tells me, “was something else.” He lets out an amused breath and turns to me. “Do you really know how to develop pictures?”

“Oh, yeah, I do. I took a photography class. I liked portraits. You’d be a good subject.” I answer, drawing the covers off his naked body and admiring him. “You look so lush. I should keep you like this.” I sit up on one elbow, letting the sheet fall from my breasts. My nipples are stiff in the cooling air.

“Keep me how? Good and thoroughly fucked?” He pulls me down for languid kisses, absently playing with my nipples, squeezing and pressing, kissing and sucking softly, his tongue playing across the tips until I sigh. They’re dark rose, thick and swollen from his attention.

“Mm-hmm, that sounds good.” We lay together, spent but still touching. His hands are gentle but my nipples are sore. He guides me down so I’m on my back, and he throws one of his legs over both of mine. Lew’s hand roams, but not to my breasts or between my legs, resting on my belly instead. I’m hit by such a wave of love for him, it’s overwhelming. His face is so close to mine, his full lips just barely an inch away, our kisses sweet and messy, warm but without urgency. I open my mouth for him, sucking on his tongue, liking his bare skin on mine. He twitches against my hip and gathers me to him, curling around my back, and his hand dips lower, opening me so he can slide in.

This time it’s gentle and sweet, both of us rocking together, but I’m so sore, so tender that the easy friction is exquisite. I reach behind me to put a hand on his hip, on his bottom, his muscles tensing and relaxing with his slow thrusting. His fingers explore my wet, swollen folds, fluttering until fluid leaks out of me. He whispers love words and moves in and out of me so achingly slowly, all the way out and then all the way back in, filling me completely. He kisses the nape of my neck. We stay like that for a long time.

 

* * *

 

  

Later, when we’re done again and lying tangled in his sheets, he asks me how I’m feeling.

“Right now? Really good.”

His lips quirk. “I’ll bet. But you're okay?”

“Yeah, I get sick and I'm tired a lot, but otherwise fine. I worry. I was really afraid, but now I'm just happy. I love you and I want this baby. I love him.”

“You keep saying him.”

I shrug. “It feels like a him. I suppose we’ll find out.” There’s a long pause that he fills with a kiss, and then Lew traces my collarbone and my hip bones, both more prominent than they used to be.

“You’re healthy and everything, though?” His dark eyes are full of concern.  “You’re too skinny.” He’s rubbing my belly when he leans down to kiss me, kisses one nipple then the other, suckling a little, before kissing my stomach. His lips move against my skin and I wonder if he’s whispering to the baby. Lew sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I have to go, Rissa. Why don’t you stay here, take a nap? I’ll come get you, we’ll go to dinner.” Yawning, I nod at him.

He tosses me one of his clean t-shirts and I pull it over my head, letting fall around me. The bed smells like him. I’m almost purring, I’m so content. Lew tucks me into his bed and chuckles. “You look cute in there. It’s going to be hard to concentrate knowing you’re in my bed, wearing my shirt--”

“And nothing else?”

“Exactly,” he tells me, dressing himself while I watch from under my lashes. He tips me a wink, gives me his smirk. “Dinner later?”

“Yes, please.” My eyes are closed, so I just listen to him. He’s whistling, picking up the flotsam that he keeps in his pockets, the click of his lighter, the smell of smoke. Then there’s a light knock on the door, just a faint wrap of knuckles. The door opens.

“Everything okay?” It’s Dick. He must have been worried about his friend.

Lew’s voice is pitched low; he’s trying to let me sleep. “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. She’s pregnant.” Even though I can’t see him, I know he’s looking down, hand at the back of his neck, the same way I know he’s smiling out of one side of his mouth.

“What?” The one word sounds sharp and surprised.

“She’s having a baby. She’s sleeping in there. C’mon, let’s go.”

“No wonder she looked so nervous, she must have been--” The door shuts, cutting off the rest of whatever else Dick says.

I haven’t slept so well in so long. When I wake up, it’s early evening, the sky pale purple and the air is cool. I’m in the shower, under the hot water, which still seems like a luxury, when I hear the door open. The shower curtain runs back and Lew steps in and he washes me and then himself, not saying anything but kissing the back of my neck. The bathroom is full of steam by the time we’re done.

We walk down to the town through the spring twilight. Lew holds my hand and for a little while, we’re just a boy and a girl walking through the trees. We talk about everything from where I’m staying and what I’m going to do to where we should eat. Finally, I hesitantly ask him if he’s really okay. He had a wife and they have a child, and that he was desperately unhappy--with his wife, he’s hardly seen his child through no fault of his own. I don’t want to be an obligation; I want him to want me for my own sake. He stops walking and turns to me. “I love _you_. I want you, I need you, and whoever else might come along,” he says. “So don’t worry. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone so much until I met you. And besides, who’s to say I didn’t want to make sure _you’d_ be stuck with _me_?”

I just shake my head at him indulgently. “Remember the day we met? I was on my way to go home and sleep. It was raining, and someone opened the café door. It looked all cozy and smelled so good, and suddenly I was so hungry that I had to eat right then. God smiled.”

“He did. And you have a weakness for bacon sandwiches.”

“Well, they’re good.” He winks at me and I kiss him on the mouth, standing on tiptoe and silently thanking God and some unknown person who left a café at the exact perfect moment once upon a time.

We walk the rest of the way in companionable silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts until we reach cobbled streets.

Dinner is warm and good. I’ve found out that I really like spaetzle. Anyway, the food is delicious and the dinner wine is tart. It’s just a hair too cool to eat outside, but we do anyway. And that’s supper; wine and whiskey and cigarette smoke and spaetzle and our teasing verbal sparring. We talk the whole time, about the baby, about what I’m going to do, that Lew’s going to see if he can stay with me over the weekend. We amuse each other, him making me giggle until dinner is done and we wander back to the little inn where I’m staying. I remember a time when I thought anyone would care that we were sharing a room without being married--well, to each other, anyway. That night, I curl up next to him and it’s like coming home. He needs to leave in the morning, but tells me he’ll be back in the evening.

He’s back just after dark, flinging the door open, yelling “Honey, I’m home!” He’s slurring a bit, stumbling, but happy. “Had to celebrate, Rissy.” His kisses are sloppy but warm. I just roll my eyes at him and settle into his lap.

“I want to eat,” I tell him. So, we do, after a fashion, once he sobers up a little.

On Saturday, we walk through the village and Lew tells me there’s something he wants me to see. It’s a tiny house, a cottage really, quaint and sweet like something out of a storybook. He brings me up the walk and I’m even more confused when he pulls a key out of his pocket. “For you,” he says. “I’m renting it for you, when you’re here.” It’s adorable and furnished, comfortable, lots of windows and a garden in the back.

“It’s lovely.”

“I want you close to me and once you can’t work, you can just stay here, until we all go home. I mean, if you can’t leave before the baby is here.”

The rest of the day we play house, buying food, a few things I’ll need, and a ridiculously pretty dress I see in a shop window.

That night I make him dinner for the first time. I’ve cooked before, of course, but this is a real meal, chicken and potatoes and gravy and biscuits--Illinois food I haven’t made in a long time. It’s nice, comforting, making this little house smell like home. My mama made this very same supper when I was a little girl. I used to help her once I was old enough and I would imagine I was in my own kitchen, grown up with my own daughter. Never once did it cross my mind that I’d be making dinner for my married lover in Germany, but here we are, nonetheless.

Once we’ve eaten and I’ve done the washing up, we go out into the back garden. It’s early yet, the first stars just beginning to peep out. It smells lovely, that rich earth smell, all bleeding hearts and forget-me-nots, the same flowers we had at home. The back steps are almost sinking into the rich brown soil and I sit there, bare feet in the cool grass. Lew comes down the steps behind me and I scoot over so he can sit, too, but he only stands there and hands me a single sprig of lily of the valley. “D’you know that these symbolize sweetness and purity?” He looks down at me and I hold his gaze. “Like you.” And I blush, shaking my head. “And the return of happiness?” He drops to one knee in front of me, and my eyes grow wide. I mean, I kind of figured this would happen, but I didn’t expect it now.

“I love you, Rissy. If you’ll--if you’ll let me…Oh, I had a whole speech thought out, but I’m just going to come out and say it.” He looks up at me and his throat works. “Will you marry me?” The ring is beautiful, sparkling even in the dark. It’s heart-shaped, the band twined with tiny leaves and vines. My hand is shaking when he puts it on my finger, but that’s okay because his is shaking, too. I realize I haven’t answered his question, so I do in the best way I can think of. I kiss him, trying to get up or embrace him, I don’t know, we both end up sprawled in the grass while I nod and smile and cry and kiss him all at once. Eventually, he picks me up and carries me through our kitchen and down the hall to the feather bed and--

You know, I’ve told you a lot, you’ve heard about what we’ve done and how it felt and what I thought in exquisite detail. But this night, what we did and what we said, that’s going to stay just between Lew and me.


	26. Night Follows Day

The moon still almost full; it’s just beginning to wane, really. It casts a pale, watery sort of light, making everything look unfamiliar and distorted. Every unexpected noise makes me jump, everything seems too close and too far away at once. I walk through that prettily grotesque moonlight slowly, carefully, reminding myself of a doe. I’m hesitant like one, too, because everyone is over-wrought tonight.

There were always deer around my father’s farm. They would stop and pause amongst the trees before the walked out into the open. We’d watch them from the windows, and they were very pretty with delicate limbs and velvety muzzles. They look almost ethereal from far away. Up close, they’re full of parasites and those limbs only appear to be delicate. They eat up the crops, too. You run into a deer with your car, the car’ll be wrecked, the deer just might bound away. Deer can be dangerous, even the does, even if they do have limpid eyes.

The night after that day, the people are cagey, too. There are too many men left with the kind of impotent anger that needs to come out somehow. One should be careful, especially if you’re a girl alone. Of course, I’m not _really_ alone, I have to care for the tiny baby swimming in my belly, and that only makes me more cautious. Not that I think anyone would hurt me exactly, but there’s so much tension, the very air seems ready to explode, like we’re living in a powder keg and any little spark could set it off. Every passing moment feels like it’s the moment _before_ , although before what, I couldn’t say.

It feels wrong to do anything. Obviously, it would be wrong to be happy, but it also feels wrong to be angry or sad. I mean, how can _I_ be sad or angry when other people have been…It seems wrong to eat and wrong to waste food, wrong somehow to put on clean clothes or wash or worry about any of my own problems, which seem stupid and inconsequential in comparison. The only thing that seems right is to sit quietly, be somber. I want to be numb and I want to hurt someone--I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t think I’m the only one who feels that way, though. On all counts.

So I do what you do. You walk with a purpose, with your head up. Try not to look small, frightened, and helpless. I finally get where I’m going, open the door, and let myself in. I shrug out of my old navy coat--that poor thing is almost threadbare now, it’s definitely seen better days--and leave it on a heavily carved coat tree. The dark wood gleams dully in yellow lamplight, everything here is too heavy, too ornate. There are too many beads and tassels and tufts. I never want to see anything like it again.

It’s also too quiet.  There isn’t any noise or any voices, just the ugly mellow light coming from another room. I pause again for half a moment, almost ready to take off my boots. ‘You don’t wear outdoors shoes in a house,’ my mother whispers. Even now it’s hard not to listen to her half-remembered voice, but I don’t know what’s happening in the other room, so the boots stay on. I leave wet tracks behind me, but it’s not my floor and I try not to care.

Carefully, a doe again, I find my way through the entry and down a short hall. The doorway is tall but not imposing, this was just a regular home for regular people. Lew’s chair is pulled close to the cold, empty fireplace. A line of photographs marches down the mantle, all portraits. There’s a mother and a father and three boys who grow from babies to young men in uniform. Lew’s just sitting, his head tipped forward and his hands are laced together over his stomach. His dirty boots are propped up on a fussy little ottoman. Someone who didn’t know him well might think he was sleeping.

But no. there’s an empty glass on the side table and an unfamiliar half-empty bottle beside it. At least there’s a glass. That’s something.

“I had to go find this shit. There wasn’t anything here.” His voice comes out quietly. He sounds leaden, dead.

I’m not sure how to respond to this, so I don’t say anything, only come closer with my hands spread in front of me. Showing him they’re empty as though any threat here could come from me.

“Make no mistake, it is shit.” He’s not looking at me. “But I’ll drink it anyway.”

I bite my bottom lip and nod slowly. I’m close enough to touch him now, so I put a hand on his shoulder, letting my fingers slip into his collar. He’s wet from the rain, too. He can’t have been here for long.

“Don’t touch me. I haven’t changed clothes. I probably smell. I--”

“I don’t care.” I move his arm, settle into his lap. He tolerates this, just barely.

“Picking up the aftermath,” he sighs, “you always do that.”

I shrug. “It’s my job. Or it was. Before.” Isn’t that what being a nurse is, if you get right down to it? Of course, I’ll pick up the pieces for Lew, too. It’s what you do when you love someone. And it makes me feel useful, needed, like I’m doing something. You need that on nights like tonight.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” I cross my legs, consider my feet. I never thought there’d be a day when little Rissa Love would be wearing men’s shoes, but that was also before. Funny. His boots are four sizes bigger than mine. “I’m here because I want to be. That’s all.”

He has to look up at me, but only slightly. His eyes are bloodshot, bottomless, and too dark. You can’t unsee what you’ve seen. Every time you think you’ve seen the limit of man’s capacity to be cruel, there has been one step further down that dank and splintered staircase. And today, today--I didn’t think that was possible. We’ve treated vermin with more compassion. That one man, one woman, or even a handful of people, could be so calculatingly, unabashedly _evil_ is plausible. To think that a group of people could have planned and organized and brought to fruition something so unimaginable is too terrifying to believe. There were _children_ , there were _babies_ , for Christ’s sake. It makes me put a hand over my belly, like I could protect the baby inside with a gesture.

Lew looks at me with burning eyes and I’m glad that I didn’t have to see, or smell, or hear. To know is bad enough. So I do the only thing I can. I hold him to me, and when the bitter tears come, I let him cry until it’s over. In some small way, it burns itself out. Once he’s cried his cry and I’ve idly stroked the back of his head, it’s a little better. I’ve always liked the short, bristly hairs at his nape, liked to rub them in the wrong direction and feel them spring back under my fingers. It’s what I do now, while we sit in the chair and neither one of us talks. I’ve gotten mud all over the chair’s upholstery. I’ve ruined it. Good.

Lew takes a drink straight from the bottle then holds it out to me. I shake my head and then reconsider. Just a sip. It’s been a hard day. I sip, he swallows and the swallows again. His eyes are beginning to swim, going wide and unfocused. Whatever he’s drinking is starting to smell cloying and I don’t like it. I’m not sure exactly what it is. I can’t read the German.

I get to my feet and tug at his hand; he hauls himself up to stand beside me. Lew’s hand is heavy on my shoulder. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, I am suddenly exhausted. I don’t even want to think. I want to sleep, to be unaware, and I want to be next to him.

“Where’re we going?”

“Bed.”

“Rissy,” he heaves a sigh, “I don’t want--We _can’t--_ ”

“We’re going to sleep.” I honestly think this’ll maybe be only the second or third time we’ve ever just gone to sleep when we’ve had time, a bed, and privacy. Or just time and relative privacy. But that’s not what either one of us wants or needs right now.

Lew lets me lead him up the stairs and then he has to show me the rest of the way. There aren’t any lights on and I don’t know where I’m going.

We go to the bathroom first. I perch on the closed toilet and watch him wash his hands and face. The water is hardly more than a trickle and cold, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I find a clean washcloth and rub at the back of his neck. The drops stain his collar and make gooseflesh. We’re both still uneasy, not with each other, but it feels like the world has changed around me. I didn’t know cruelty could exist on such a large scale. It’s knowledge I wish I didn’t have. It makes me feel uncomfortable, apprehensive in my own skin, and I wonder if he feels the same way. His movements have the same hesitant, jerky quality mine do, but that could be the liquor and nothing else. I don’t think that’s all it is, though.

In the bedroom, there are more photographs and a high dark bed. We turn the photos face down. Lew drops one and the glass cracks, creating a spider-web over the father and his sons. He sits heavily on the edge of the bed and he heaves a deep sigh. I kneel before him unsteadily--my belly is just starting to get unwieldy--and work on his boots and then his clothes. He lets me, just as he did once before. He helps me clamber back to my feet once his boots are off, his grasp is not exactly gentle just above my elbow. When his things are folded neatly enough and put aside, I take care of my own, and finally, finally put an end to the day by crawling into bed.

This night, instead of settling into the circle of his arms, I keep crawling right over him to fit myself along his back, let him pillow his head on one of my arms and the other comes under his arm to stop on his chest. That’s how we stay, that night I’m the one to hold him.

“I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Me, too.” There’ll be odds and ends to clear up, and I have a feeling I may be very busy for a while before my little situation is dealt with administratively. But that’s alright. Better to be useful.

But for now, none of that matters. We are here together, all three of us, and it is our job to take care of each other. That is part of being human.

Lew stays awake for a long time; I am awake for far longer, but still not long enough to see the sun rise.


	27. Oh, Baby

Nothing has ever hurt this much in my life. Nothing. I broke my arm falling out of a tree when I was nine. The world seemed to stop spinning as I fell to the ground; the snap was audible. I would do that again a thousand goddamn times all at once right now.

I want to kill the damn doctor who keeps shushing me, I want to kill the nurses, I want to die, I want to fucking _murder_ Lew. I want Lise, I want Marion, I want Dr. Watney, hell, I even want the surgeon who rolled his eyes at me like I was a love-struck teenager. Mostly though, I want Lew, even if I do want to kill him.

The morphine gives me sweet relief, but it’s still not enough. The doctor puts his hand inside me and it hurts--I can’t help but to grab the nurse’s arm. At least it’s the nice one, she has kind eyes. “Please,” I whimper, “I want him.”

“He can’t come in here,” the other one snaps. She’s disapproving. I am here with another woman’s husband, yes. It hasn’t escaped her that we have different last names. _I’m_ an unmarried hussy. It’s only made worse by the fact that my ring is on a chain around my neck now, so my finger is completely bare. My fingers are too swollen for it to fit.

Everything is taking on a surreal quality, nothing looks right but I can’t put my finger on what’s out of place. It all just looks like it’s knocked subtly out of true. I’m in pain and scared and alone with strangers. And worse yet, I have no control over anything.

“Getting closer,” grunts the doctor, finally withdrawing. It’s like I’m not even here. He leaves without saying a word to me.

The nice one brushes a stray lock of hair off my face and I look up at her. “Please, I know that--Oh, God, please!” my voice dissolves into a whine as my belly tightens. She lets me squeeze her hand, hanging on for dear life, and then I’m crying.

“Language, Miss.” The disapproving one looks disgusted. “Stop crying, you’re fine. Women have been having babies since the beginning of time.”

I wonder if she’s ever done this, if she’s ever had any physical pain that even comes close to this. Her ring finger is also bare, but she’s young yet, younger than me. The nice one has a thin gold band--she’s a little older than me, maybe. My thoughts are all swimmy. None of this matters.

And then it’s the nice one who says, “She’s been here a long time and he’s worried about her. He could just sit by the bed out of our way.” I could kiss her, she’s an angel, I love her.

“This is no place for a man. You know that.”

“She wants him. He’s seen worse.”

My belly contracts again and I sob silently. When it’s over, she takes my hand. Her eyes are hazel, brown ringed with green. “What’s his name, Clarissa? We’ll let him in for a little while.”

“Captain Nixon. Lewis. Lew.”

“Okay.” She walks to the door and calls out, “Eli, can you go get her hus--the father? Nixon.” The disapproving one shakes her head and makes an aggravated sound, muttering under her breath and throwing glances at the nice one.

“Joyce, you _cannot_ \--”

“I know. But I just did. There’s nothing to be done about it now, Dorothy.” If this baby is a girl, she’ll be a Joyce. My belly contracts again and I cry, and through it, I hear familiar footfalls, and then Lew’s hands hesitant on my upper arms. He smells like smoke, his hair is in wild tufts, and he has bags under his eyes and he’s never been a more welcome sight.

“Here’s a chair for you, Captain.” Joyce angles it toward the head of the bed, at my shoulder, so he has no view of my lower half. “You can stay with her for a bit, not too long, now.”

Then he takes both my hands in one of his, brushes my hair back. And again, this time I just breathe through it, biting my lip and shutting my eyes tight, but a few tears leak out anyway. And maybe I say a few words, but very, very quietly. Dorothy would be horrified. When it’s done, he’s looking down at me.

“I love you,” we both say at once, before he kisses me lingeringly.

“This is _insane_.” Something metal slams down on the counter.

“For Pete’s sake, Dot, shut _up_.” Joyce sounds exasperated. “She’s having a baby right now; I think we can assume he’s kissed her before.” Dot doesn’t say anything, but her jaw clenches alarmingly, Lew’s mouth quirks and I almost manage a smile before I can barely breathe again. He lets me squeeze his hands and instead of shutting my eyes, I look into his and that makes it a little better.

When it’s over, I let myself sink into the pillow. I’m a sweaty bedraggled mess, but I don’t care. After all, he’s seen worse--he’s seen _me_ worse, and it feels so good just not to hurt for a moment. And then pressure and a gush--it _hurts_ \--and Joyce hurries to check on me when she sees my face. Her expression changes when she pulls the blanket back, she turns to Dot and says “Go get Dr. Jamison now.” Her voice is the same low, too calm tone I’ve used myself countless times, and I know what it means. My heart calls to God, Jesus, Mary, the angels, whoever’s up there, my mother. All I want is for my baby to be okay, I don’t even care about myself.

Joyce is all business, getting things ready, and then she comes to us. “Clarissa--”

“Rissa.”

“Rissa, then, your fluid is bloody. I’m going to move the blankets, be ready.” She turns to Lew, “Sir, you’ll have to leave.”

My eyes go wide and I cling to his arm, shaking my head.

“I’m not going to leave her. I won’t leave them.”

Then the doctor comes in, a different doctor, and he moves the blankets back. There’s so much blood coming from me. I whimper, scared, and the pain is blinding, but Lew’s right there, one hand on either side of my face, and he’s the only still thing in a flutter of activity.

When the pain recedes, the doctor tells me he needs to check me. He’s much gentler than the first doctor, explaining what he’s doing as he examines me. “Alright, honey, we’re going to have a baby now. You’re going to push next time.” He’s too reassuring and his brow is furrowed. It’s Dot who moves my legs into the stirrups and I strain to hear what the doctor’s saying to Joyce.

“--Previa, I think. Maybe abruption, hard to tell. Go get someone for the baby.” Joyce rushes to the door and calls to someone. The world starts going grey around the edges.

Then Dr. Jamison’s hand is on my thigh, squeezing hard. “None of that, now. You’ve got to help your baby, sweetheart.” His eyes flick to Lew’s uniform. “Mrs. Nixon, we’re all going to do our best now, you do your best, too.”

No one has ever called me that before.

And there’s Joyce, and Dot, and a nurse who reminds me of Marion, and a doctor who looks about sixteen to me. It’s pandemonium and all I know is that it hurts, hurts, hurts, and Lew is there talking to me and brushing damp hair off my forehead while I make ugly faces and ugly sounds.

“Love you, love you, love you, Rissy,” from Lew.

“Good girl, good girl,” from the doctor.

Blood soaked towels thrown on the floor. The stains bloomed like roses, spreading out. I’ve never liked red flowers.

“Okay, rest. Rissa? Rissa, rest. You’re almost there.” To the nurse who’s not Marion, “Open her IV’s, she needs volume. Dorothy, call for blood--”

I feel like I’m being ripped in half and what I say is something that no lady should even think but no one cares, least of all me. I’m pushing as hard as I can, and then, mercifully, “The head’s out, good, good, shoulders now.” it’s the strangest feeling when that tiny body slides out of mine. It’s the beginning, but it’s an end, too. We’ll never occupy the same space again.

It strikes me that the room is too quiet, but it’s really only seconds that pass before an ear-piercing cry fills the air. “It’s a boy, a good strong boy.” I collapse onto the mattress and cry out of pure relief.

They give Lew scissors; he cuts the umbilical cord. He looks like he’s in a trance, in awe of our brand-new son.

My bleeding has slowed down, I’ll need blood, but I’ll be fine.

Finally, the very newest and smallest Nixon is all cleaned up and given to me. He’s perfect, dark downy hair and wide blue eyes, full little lips. He’s so soft, even if he is mottled and red. He has ten tiny fingers and toes, perfect and miniature, cute baby bottom fat with diapers. I’m literally overwhelmed with pure love, I can’t speak. Amazing how such a small person can inspire such big feelings. He’s a miracle, all six pounds three ounces of him.

Amid all the commotion, it’s like the three of us are an island; nothing else matters. And Lew gets in the bed, too, gathers the both of us up in his arms, and kisses me once, and then again. “You did it, baby.”

“I did.” My eyes shine up at him; his brim with tears. “I didn’t exactly do it alone, though. I had a little help.”

“We’ve got a little boy,” he half whispers. “What should we call him?”

“Lewis.”

“What?”

“No, that’s his name.”

“Really? That’s what you want?”

I nod, nestling into the crook of his arm, and I bring the baby up to my shoulder, cradling his wee head and kissing him. “He needs a middle name, though.”

“What about Richard? Lewis Richard. We can call him Richie.” His eyes are fixed on the baby, and it’s plain on his face how much he wants to do this, how much the names, both of them, mean to him.

“I love that. It’s absolutely perfect.” I can’t help but to kiss my baby, his chubby little cheeks and his silky mouth. “He looks like a Richie, doesn’t he?” I look up at Lew and smile. I’m so happy and so tired. “Actually, he looks just like you.”

“Unlucky kid.”

“You’re both very handsome.” I kiss his stubbled cheek.

“You might be a bit biased, though.”

“Well, yes, but I have eyes.”

“Very pretty ones, too.” He tips my chin up for more kisses. Our child sleeps in my arms and I rest my head on his father’s shoulder.

“Do you want to hold him?”

Lew nods and takes the baby in his hands. It’s amazing to see how tender and gentle he is. He kisses the baby’s forehead, whispers something into Richie’s soft, velvety ear, and the baby stirs, molding himself into his father’s arms.

Gingerly, I move onto my side so I can watch the two people I love best in all the world as they get acquainted with one another. The baby looks impossibly tiny in Lew’s hands. If I thought I ever saw tenderness or protectiveness in Lewis’ eyes before, it doesn’t compare to what I’m seeing right now.

“He’s getting hungry,” Joyce says.

I take him back from Lew who unties my gown for me. I’ve helped so many women breast-feed, but I’ve never nursed a baby; I’m nervous. I cradle little Richie in one arm and bring him to my breast, his tiny mouth searches. When the baby suckles, it hurts. His little mouth is vigorous, drawing at me, drinking his milk.

“Ow,” I stutter and wince. Joyce looks at me, and at Richie.

“It hurts at first, love, but it gets better. You’re both doing a good job.”

I hold him and I feed him, the newest and smallest Nixon, while his father holds us both and looks on. Sometime later, when his belly is full and he’s asleep, he’s swaddled and taken to the nursery.

I look at Lew, who looks exhausted. “I’ve never been so far away from him. I miss him.”

“Me, too. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Lew tucks my hair behind my ear. “Except for his mother.”

That’s Lew for you, always the flirt. Honestly, I wouldn’t have him any other way. He’s like his son, perfect. I kiss him long and slow and I’m happier than I’ve ever been.


	28. Naptime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, sorry so smutty. That's all i can say, I have no excuses.

Lew is watching me nurse our baby. He sits at the opposite end of the sofa from us, the baby and I, with his ever-present glass of Vat 69 in his hand. It would be a cozy little scene, but we’re both cranky and upset. Our son, on the other hand, has fallen asleep. I have _not_ been sleeping--that’s why I’m cross--and Lew is just being disagreeable. I get up to put the baby in his bassinet and I kiss his tiny cheek as I lay him down. He looks like his father, at least as much as two-month-old can. I turn around and come back to the couch, hesitating slightly, before lying down. I put my head in Lew’s lap, but slowly enough to give him a chance to stop me if he doesn’t want me there. Instead, he cups my cheek and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. He sighs heavily and stares off into space.

“I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice, “that I snapped at you earlier. I’m just so tired.”

He shuts his eyes and leans his head back. “S’okay.” He pauses for a beat. “I’m sorry, too. Not good company today, am I?”

“I’m just happy to see you. I miss you when you’re gone.” I watch his jaw tighten. “I don’t mean anything by that, I just like you.”

One corner of his mouth raises a little. “I’m glad you _like_ me, Rissa.”

“Oh, I do.” I show him my hand. “Look, my ring fits again. And you’re not company, you’re my family.” I frown. “That doesn’t sound right, but you know what I mean.”

“Yes. What I am is the married man who got you pregnant and asked you to marry him before his first marriage was over. Is there a word for that?”

“Hmm, don’t know. But I’m a girl who had a baby with a married man and enthusiastically, ecstatically agreed to marry him while he was still married to another woman. I don’t think there’s a word for that, either.”

“Not a nice one, anyway,” he replies. “But I suppose that makes us a matched set.” His thumb is caressing my cheek, and I turn my face into his hand as he finishes his drink. “We’ll be getting ready to go home soon.”

“I’m scared,” I tell him. “It’s different over here. But I’m kind of afraid to meet your family after I’ve had your baby…” I trail off, then continue, “I just don’t want anyone to think--This wasn’t something dirty or sordid. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Riss. It’s going to be okay. We’ll be fine, and we’ll find a place for you to live, or for us to live, whatever we decide to do at first. And we’ll get married as soon as it’s all worked out… You, me, and Richie are a family. You’re my family. We’ll figure it out.” He sighs again.

I sit up right next to him, close against his side. All of this is making me sad. The rules that fell by the wayside here are alive and well at home. I know what people will think of me--people who haven’t been exposed to death and dying every day, who have no idea what this was really like. I know what people will say about my sweet baby, what people will call him. My innocent child who was brought into existence because his parents simply needed to be loved. Etiquette takes a backseat when you’re hoping that you and the ones you love will make it to tomorrow. I wonder if people who’ve been safe at home will understand that. It’s too much to think of right now, and I’m too tired.

“I need a nap, Lew.”

He gets up, too. “I’ll come with you. Maybe we’ll both feel better after some sleep.” We both peek at the baby, and Lew follows me into the bedroom we call ours, leaving the door open so I can hear Richie if he wakes.

I turn to get undressed once I’m at my side of the bed. I get into bed in my panties and my slip, sliding between the sheets thinking only of sleeping, but Lew catches my attention as he gets undressed, facing away from me and I watch him hungrily from under my eyelashes. He pulls his shirt off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, and then he bends over to pull down his trousers and I admire his backside. His t-shirt comes off over his head and then he’s crawling under the covers with me, but only to lie flat on his back and stare at the ceiling. I’m still cranky, on top of feeling morbid and morose, and now I feel unreasonably rejected, too, even though I’ve been complaining about being tired all day and he has no idea that I’m lying here lusting after him. And since I’m stubborn, I roll over onto my side and decide I won’t close the distance between us, despite the fact I know I’m cutting off my nose to spite my face.

I hear him move before his arms encircle me and pull me back to his chest. I haven’t been here in a long time; I’m suddenly desperate to get as close to him as I can, to feel as much of his bare skin as possible. Turning onto my back, I look at his face, and I give him a tiny smile when I see the love naked in his eyes as he looks down at me, his head propped up on one hand. One corner of his mouth comes up and then he’s laughing and I’m giggling, but quietly. “Hi, cute girl,” he speaks into my ear, making me think of the first night we were ever together, “It’s going to be fine. Love you,” he pauses for just a moment, “I know you need sleep…” He’s smirking again, “But I’m going to kiss you goodnight first.” His kiss starts soft and sweet, a kiss for a fairy tale, but it quickly changes into something else when I pull his bottom lip between mine and bring him down to me, twining my arms around his neck, sucking his tongue into my mouth. His hand rests low on my belly, and I feel little embers beginning to stir there, under my skin, under his palm. We haven’t slept together since before the baby was born, and I want him, need him badly, now. This heated kissing isn’t enough, as good as it feels.

I moan a little, far back in my throat, and his lips move to my neck, and it’s heaven when his stubble and his teeth graze the sensitive skin there. I can feel my nipples tighten under my silky slip—and then, oh God, I’m _horrified_ to see the two wet spots forming over them darkening the ivory fabric. I jerk back from him and turn my head, refusing to meet his eyes and crossing my arms over my chest. “Rissa,” comes his voice, puzzled, “what’s wrong? Do you want me to stop?” I shake my head miserably and Lew gently moves my arms. I know he sees my breasts leaking and I’m embarrassed, still looking away. He doesn’t say anything at first, only traces my areola with his fingertip and gently presses on my nipple. “My baby grew in your belly,” he starts, caressing my stomach, “And you feed him. That’s all. And this is a good excuse for me to take your clothes off. Besides, shit happens.” He grins and I can’t help but to laugh as we both sit up and he helps me pull my slip up and off.  He’s stroking my bare breasts, kneading them under his palms, rolling my nipples between his fingers and I arch my back, pushing my breasts into his hands. “C’mere, c’mere,” he murmurs, and I climb into his lap, straddling his hips. His arms come back around me, pressing our bodies together, leaving my breasts in his face, my nipples so close to his lips. I ache for him to suckle and kiss, but I’m not sure if he’ll want to.

He nuzzles his face between my breasts, his voice is muffled. “They’re bigger now,” he tells me and I’m either blushing or flushed as he whispers dirty little words into my cleavage, all the while plucking at my nipples, teasing and tugging, and finally there’s a deep, soft pinch at the tips of my breasts.

“Just don’t hurt me there, please,” I say in a tiny voice, “can’t do that now.”

“No, baby. There’ll be time enough for all that again when these are just mine again.” He squeezes gently, his hands cupping me tenderly, thumbs running across my nipples, hard like pebbles, hard like he is where I can feel him underneath me. He looks up at my face while he weighs my breasts in his hands. “Rissa, c-can I taste…” His voice, a little unsure, trails off but I nod yes and watch wide-eyed as he brings his mouth to my nipple. He groans and I sigh. His mouth is warm and greedy at my breast, suckling _hard_ , and I start grinding my pelvis down onto his, moving my hips in circles while he clutches at me. He _swallows_ and then lets go, resting his forehead against my chest for a moment before he crushes his face to my other breast with a loud groan and begins sucking from that side, too. It’s so incredibly intimate, watching him do this, and I cradle his head in my arms, fingers threading through his hair. His lips and teeth and tongue feel so good, so good, I can’t help but buck my hips against him, feeling the friction build between my legs, clasping the back of his head, fingers digging into his scalp, and suddenly I’m trembling, boneless in his lap and he holds me up so I don’t fall.

He leans back from my chest. There is a little rivulet of my milk at the corner of his mouth; he wipes it away with the back of his hand. His dark chocolate eyes give me a little jolt and he raises one eyebrow. “Did you just--?” I nod at him solemnly and he replies with a smirk. “But I’ve hardly even touched you,” he drawls, and his fingers graze me and stroke lightly along the seam between my legs through my damp panties.

“Well, then, we’ll have to do something about that” I murmur, clambering down from his lap and lying down on the bed. I pull my panties over my hips and down my legs, and then I spread my thighs as wide as I can. I can feel my folds open slightly, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in front of him.

His fingers trace my cleft, circling the little pink nub they find at the top. “So pretty,” he breathes, brushing against my curls and then dipping inside me. He touches his hand to his mouth. He utters “Oh, honey,” raggedly and I don’t know if he’s addressing me or if he’s describing what’s on his fingers. He shifts so that he’s on top of me between my thighs, and I wait to feel him push into me, but he keeps lowering his body until he’s kissing between my legs.

He laps at me, fingers finding my opening and tongue running up and down my cleft. His lips caress the bundle of nerves just before he sucks it into his mouth, his fingers stroking and fluttering inside me, moving in and out rhythmically, a little roughly, but sweet, too. He pushes me over the edge again and I call out his name until he claps his hand over my mouth.

“Shh. You need to be quiet,” he laughs. “I don’t want naptime to be over yet.” He winks at me, resting his head on my thigh. I realize he’s been grinding his hips against the bed.

I coo at him. “Poor baby. You’ve been very _generous_ today. I want to make you feel good, too.” I raise one eyebrow at him, “Although, I have to say, I’m kind of in love with your mouth right now.”

“What about the rest of me?”

“Oh, well, the rest of you, too. Of course.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Lew drags his body up along mine and presses his lips to my mouth. I can taste myself on him. I lightly scratch my nails up and down his back and lock my legs around his waist while he rocks against me, not inside yet. I reach down to cup his ass, letting my legs fall open under him, kissing and nipping at his neck, burying my face in his shoulder. Lost in what he’s doing to me and what I’m doing to him, and for some reason I don’t know, I bite his shoulder. Hard.

“Ow! Fuck! What’re you _doing_?” He’s stopped moving.

“Sorry, sorry.” I kiss him over the marks my teeth left in his skin and he flinches. I mumble tiny little sorries and leave baby kisses down his chest, my hand following the trail of hair down his belly, reaching for that very male part of him.

“No, no, none of that now. I’m afraid you might _assault_ me.” Strong arms turn me over and grasp my hips, pulling my backside into the air. I lean up on my arms so that I’m on all fours and peek at him over my shoulder. “I want you like this,” he rumbles from behind me. I spread my knees for him and he kneels behind me and I arch my back, ready for him. “You can’t bite me from there,” he growls, leaning over me, hands braced on my hips. His tip teases my entrance, just barely inside. He thrusts into me all at once, all the way, as deep as he can. He begins to move in and out, but achingly, exquisitely slowly. I swear I can feel every little bump and ridge on him.

His hand slides around my hip and between my legs. He pinches and squeezes, and then presses down hard, grinding on the little bundle of nerves with his thumb. He’s still so much in control of himself, moving deliberately, not letting me move back against him. It’s not long before I’m begging him, pleading with him, to just please, please, _please_ , fuck me. “You, _bichette_ , my sweet little whore, you are mine, and you’re praying for my _cock_.”

“God, I’m yours and I need you, I need you so much.”

He pushes down on my shoulders so that my chest is on the mattress. I miss his hand and I whine at him. But he’s moving my own hand between my legs, wanting to watch me touch myself. I let my fingers slide into my wetness, knowing he can see what I’m doing, and I put on a display for him, still whimpering that I need him, want him, that I’m his. He’s moving faster inside me when he demands, “Tell me where, tell me where you need me.”

His hips are bucking against my ass and I push back against him with each thrust. He’s so deep inside, and I’m getting so close, so close to coming again when he knocks my hand away “No, no more for you,” he whispers between his groans. He’s plunging into me, my whole body moving to absorb the shock, his cock stabbing into me, desperately, frantically, our bed is creaking and we’re both moaning open-mouthed, and I can’t help it, can’t stop it, and I orgasm harder than I ever have in my life, screaming for him. Lew groans when he sees my hand dart between my legs, and I turn my head to see him, cords in his neck standing out, eyes screwed tightly shut, sweat dripping down his body, faced flushed in ecstasy while I contract around him.  He gives me one last brutal thrust before he lets out an incoherent yell and collapses onto my back. We rest together, quiet, no sound but our harsh breathing, but only for a moment.

He flips me over and I squeal when he flings my knees apart. “Ready, love?” That one eyebrow raises again, and the smirk I love so much plays around his lips. He pets me tenderly between my legs and I bite my bottom lip in anticipation. He spanks me with his warm open hand, the slaps sounding wetter and wetter as my hips writhe. I’m moaning, loving him, loving this, while I stare at his face, his eyes and his devilish smile. I cup my own breast and playing with my nipples, all the while holding his gaze. I’m keening when I come for him, still looking into his eyes from under my lashes.

He looks down at me where I’m red and swollen, warm and aching. My juices are dripping down my thighs, along with the hot fluid he left inside me. Lew brushes his finger across my sore flesh and I hiss through my teeth. He leans down and places a soft little kiss, a fairy-tale kiss between my thighs. “Kissing it better,” he mutters, lips grazing most tender, delicate part of my body.

“Lew, Lew, Lew,” I breathe, “Love you, love you, love you.”

My fiancé lies down beside me, holds me in his arms, and I rest my head in the crook of his arm. I’m warm and cozy next to him under the blankets, and sweetly exhausted. He moves to spoon me and he chuckles in my ear.

I’m smiling with my eyes closed.

He traces my collarbone soothingly. “I love you,” he’s whispering and I can feel his breath in my ear. “You’re not a whore.”

“Oh, I think it’s okay if I’m _your_ whore. I don’t mind.” I’m quiet for a moment and then I whisper back, “I’m glad our child is like you. He can sleep through anything. Thank God.”

“I think they could hear you outside.” He snickers, “And our neighbors are probably traumatized.”

“I’m not any louder than you are,” I snort.

He rubs my shoulder lazily. “We need to be careful here, cute girl,” he says against my skin, “They’ll probably forgive us one child, but two would be inexcusable…and all _I_ wanted was a kiss.”

“Lewis Nixon, go to sleep.”

“Look at you, telling me what to do.” But he shuts his eyes and I listen to his breathing even out before I fall asleep, too. We sleep tangled up together, in our bed, for two whole hours before little Richie wakes us up.

 

* * *

 

 

We do feel better after our nap, and the interlude that preceded it. We’re happy enough until his pass is over and he goes back. Lew’s told me what he can about what’s been bothering him, and I listened, curled up in his lap. He kissed the baby right before he left, and I kissed him lingeringly on the mouth, not caring who saw. I’m glad that the little cottage I’m living in with Richie is so close to where Lew is, and now that the fighting’s done, at least we’re safe enough that I don’t have to worry _too_ much.

Lew was right. Eventually, it was okay when we when he took us home with him. It was messy, to be sure, and difficult at first. Being that he was still technically married to someone else but we already had a baby, making living arrangements was rather awkward. Of course, an adorable baby goes a long way in smoothing things over with parents. Sure, there were people who gossiped and whispered, but what’s that compared to what we’ve already been through?


	29. A little help, please

“Darling, sweetheart, I need your help.” I come to him, biting my lip and blushing. My arms are crossed over my chest. I’m not really sure how to ask for what I want from him.

“What do you need?” ‘Tell me what you want’, his face says, ‘and I’ll do it for you.’ So much like a man, ready with solutions. Usually this would be irritating, but I’m asking for solutions today.

“Well, Lewis Nixon, your son is asleep and he wouldn’t eat.”

His brow creases and he looks at me. “Uh, Rissa Someday-to-be-Nixon, I’m not really quite sure what I can actually do about that.

I look back at him and I know my eyes are pleading. “It’s just that it really hurts.” I sit down next to him--he’s almost reclining on the tiny sofa--and bring his hands to my breasts. Even his fingers hurt me, I’m so full, and he’s barely touching me.

“Oh honey, oh poor baby.” His voice is warm and sympathetic, soothing even. “What do you want me to do?”

I look at him expectantly, blushing; ridiculous since we’ve done any manner of things in private and semi-public. We’ve had quick and nearly silent sex outside, in places where we were almost asking to get caught, we’ve had private little games that’ve lasted entire evenings. And all of that with nary a blush, at least not for a very long time. But this feels different.

“Oh.” Understanding dawns on his face; he licks his bottom lip. Lew’s hands are still on me, spread under my ribs. His fingers are almost tentative.

“Please? Please, I need help.” I slide my toe along the floorboard, studying it. I realize I’m almost begging him, the way I sometimes do.

”Alright, alright. I mean, I’ve already tasted it.” There’s a short pause. “And I don’t want you to hurt.”

Outside, it’s raining, cold, fitting since it’s the very end of November. Because I’m a girl, because I’m no longer working at the hospital, I’m in a thick night-gown and wool socks; Lew is still in his OD’s. Our little couch is shabby, nearly threadbare, and small enough that I’m almost in his lap.

The room is cozy, filled with comfortable, well-worn furniture, books, all the things we’ve accumulated. We have a cheery little fire and a sleeping infant. A year ago, if given a warm room and time relatively alone, we’d probably be in a very similar position, albeit for very different reasons.

His man’s fingers undo my tiny buttons and he pushes the flannel aside. It’s very nearly awkward and we’re not quite sure how to arrange ourselves. He’s tasted it, yes, but that was in bed, in the heat of the moment, not me asking him to do it apropos of nothing, to him, anyway, if not to me. My breasts are heavy and they ache, the pain is enough to make even the prospect of relief worth any embarrassment.

His head is in my lap, cushion stuffed under it, his knees are drawn up and his sock feet hang over the arm of the couch. We look at one another and I let out a small, nervous giggle. His full lips are so close to where I want them to be, but we’re both still hesitating, blinking at one another.

“D’you want me to just start?”

“Look, you don’t have to.” I start covering myself up. Maybe I can just squeeze enough out to make it feel better. My stubborn son won’t wake up, and even if he did, he’d do nothing more than scream at me.

“Sweetheart, _ma bichette_ , I’ll do it. Come here and I’ll do it.” Lew moves my hands and brings his face closer to my chest. He opens his mouth and then we’re both laughing. I’m very studiously _not_ looking at him when his mouth finally touches me.

It’s a very sweet and blissful relief when my fiancé starts to suckle, and he does, hard. His lips and tongue draw my nipple farther into his mouth. He’s suckling in earnest and I watch his stubbled jaw work against my pale skin. The whole time, I cradle his head, my fingers twining in his hair, tracing his eyebrows and his lashes, finding the edge of his earlobe and the sharp angle of his jaw, the hollow of his throat.

And when he’s done with the one, when that breast is soft again, we move. This time we find our positions quickly and there’s no hesitation. There’s just the falling rain on the window and his warm mouth on me, and now that it no longer hurts, it starts to feel good.

I let out a little sigh, then something between a purr and a moan. Lew’s arm comes around me, pulling me close. There’s the barest trace of teeth in his suckling, then his fingers find the other nipple. And then--

“All done.” He pulls back from me and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Was that weird? It was weird.”

Lew shrugs and one corner of his mouth lifts. It’s always the left one, always the left eyebrow, too. “I don’t think I’ve ever even felt anyone up without at least kissing her first, let alone…” He gestures at my naked breasts.

“Um, you could kiss me now. If you want to.”

He does kiss me, cupping my face and pulling me into his lap. For several long minutes, his lips are on my mouth, at my ear, on my throat and my shoulder, and I return his kisses. I love the small sounds he makes, how big and warm his hands feel roaming up and down my back, the smell of him--honestly, there’s nothing quite like it, soap or cologne or aftershave, it doesn’t matter, it’s nowhere near as good--that smell that’s so uniquely _Lew_ is the one I love best.

So there we are on that dreary dreich afternoon, locked in an embrace, Lew’s mouth at the hollow of my throat and I’m very nearly swooning when Richie stirs. Both of our heads snap around to look at him, but he’s still asleep in his cradle. His own little mouth is pursed and one tiny, perfect hand is at his cheek.

Lew’s whole face is a question when he turns back to me. We don’t see each other every day, or even every week-end, and babies do have a way of taking up time. I don’t think there’s a woman alive who could resist him, Lord knows I can’t. Gently, gently, he eases me down onto my back and I lift my hips for him. He kneels between my thighs, deals with his belt and his buttons before I pull him down onto me.

One of my feet trails to the floor, he’s only managed to get one leg extricated from his pants, but then he’s on me and inside me. Nothing else matters except for the gentle rocking and his hands at the nape of my neck and my breast, the muscles I can feel moving under his skin, and the dirty, filthy words, half-English and half-French, that he whispers in my ear while he loves me.

When our child in his cradle starts to wake, I beg Lew to go harder and faster, deeper--and he does--always happy to oblige such a request--unless he wants to deny me deliberately. Then his hand is over my mouth, but he can’t stifle his own loud groan. He’s still over me wide-eyed and his pupils are huge. We both pant for a minute, and I watch him, smiling up. I feel hazy, drunk on love, besotted, enamored, and I want nothing more than to look at him while he’s looking down at me.

He kisses the tip of my nose. “There it is again, that rapt attention.” He moves to rearrange his clothes, he never took his shirt off. “You look up at me like that--It makes a man feel about ten feet tall. You could probably get me to do anything with just your eyes.” He cups my cheek and kisses my forehead. “Don’t you take advantage, though.”

“You know I wouldn’t.” And this is true. I’m not above using the gentle art of persuasion, but I wouldn’t outright manipulate him.

“I know you wouldn’t, and that is why I love you so much.”

I’ll never know what else Lew was going to say, and I didn’t even get to tell him that I love him, too, because that was when our small son decided to start squalling. His little face is red and screwed up, he looks so angry for such a small baby, and he’s so _loud_.

My darling boy grew to be the most cheerful and placid of children, but only after a very demanding infancy. To be polite. That day, he awoke all at once, ready for his supper, and I was thankful that his father hadn’t drunk all of his milk.

 

* * *

 

 

That was the end of November, 1945. Strings were pulled to keep the three of us together until the baby was old enough to go home. Even so, Richie and I left before Lew did, and we traveled in relative comfort, that tiny Mr. Nixon and I. we were in a hotel for a bit--Hazel was there with her husband and her son and daughter. It was both strange and lovely to be home and to watch Hazel and Tom coo over Richie, who cooed back by then. I missed Lew desperately for the six or so weeks until he was with us again.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before all of that came Christmas. We had a short, stubby little tree, lit by fat candles in saucers. Open flames so close to the quickly drying needles scared me, but what can you do? We had Christmas dinner, and our guests were mostly men in green with stockinged feet and there was a pile of boots by the door. Really, it was much too smoky and boisterous for Christmas Eve, but again, what does that matter when the war is over and the baby can sleep through anything?

Christmas that year smelled like pine and chicken--there was no turkey to be had for love or money--and cigar smoke and whiskey. When Lew crawled into bed to curl up around me, he was unwieldy and happily drunk, and I was glad to have him in my heart and in my bed.

And in the morning, if he was a bit bleary-eyed and his first gift was a glass of water and two aspirin tablets, I could over look that.

Our gifts that year were mostly tokens. Clothes for Richie, soft baby toys, a rattle. Socks and a brown wool sweater for Lew--that I ended up stealing later, but that’s alright, he liked seeing me in it. And I still made him wear it once in a while. That way it was like being wrapped up in him when I wore it. And of course, a bottle or three of his Vat 69--he’s not the only one with a knack for finding things, although the tools at my disposal are very different from his.

For me there was my letter, a thank-you that year, it was always a thank-you after a baby was born. And a pendant, three sapphires set in silver. Three sapphires for three people born in September, the youngest of whom was just beginning to roll over by then, those blue baby’s eyes turning an improbable grey.

Lew took my locket from my neck and I held it in my hand, still warm. It held pictures of him and me--it still does, actually. I’ve never changed them. But that morning, I ran my thumb over the inscription (“Love from Nix”) and I kissed him under the sprig of mistletoe and in the light from the candles, my wayward love who tasted like smoke and smelled like whiskey, and who underneath that, smelled and tasted like nothing but himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Okay, you’re wondering. This is what happened.

Richie and I arrived in New York, Hazel and Tom were there with Harlowe and Claire in tow.  We stayed in a perfectly reasonable hotel, in adjoining rooms for a few weeks and then they went home, to Illinois, and I went with them. I saw Johnny’s mom, she hugged me and held my baby. We promised we’d see each other soon, but we never did. We wrote, we called once blue moon, but I don’t think she ever quite forgave me for falling in love with Lew.

When my visit was over (through which everyone who mattered ignored the absence of a wedding band and exclaimed over the baby and the engagement ring), I took a train back to the city, and stayed in a much nicer hotel, where we were catered to and fawned over, compliments of a certain Captain Nixon.

And then finally, one brilliantly gorgeous day, we met a boat at the harbor and we both got swept up into Lew’s arms.  My feet swung right out from under me and Richie laughed, surprising both of us and making us laugh, too.

Mr. Nixon and Ms. Mitchell had rooms on opposite sides of the same hallway.  If anyone saw Mr. Nixon go into Ms. Mitchell’s room in the evening and not emerge until the morning, well, no one said anything.  That night or any other.

Lew found us a house, and cute little apartment for me--appearances you know--but in the meantime, until both places were ready, he stayed with his father and I stayed in the hotel with Richie. Ostensibly, because much the way it was later in New Jersey, we were all really together more often than not.  By that I mean together in the hotel, not at his parent’s home.

His father was terrifying, and his mother too, but in a completely different way.  And of course, there was Kathy, and their divorce and all that mess.

But it worked out.

And to think, all of this came about because some unknown man or woman (but most likely a man) opened a café door and I smelled bacon.  Or because I was wool-gathering and I said what I meant instead of what should have said.  Or because Lew and I took a walk, and the stars were reflected in the snow, and I couldn’t help but to kiss him and touch him and love him right there, that very minute.


	30. “Welcome home, soldier.”

We waited exactly where we said we’d be, Richie and I. Far back enough that we wouldn’t be crushed, a young woman alone with baby, and close enough to our designated spot that Lew could find us. It was very odd to be dressed in a suit and heels, no more cotton dress with boots. It was very strange, actually, to get used to all the underpinnings a proper young lady must wear again, truth be told.

In the distance, I can see men coming down onto the dock all in a line. There are flags waving and cheers and people shouting everywhere, there’s even a band playing. It’s not very long, but too long just the same, before I feel myself swept up into Lew’s arms and lifted right off of the ground. He swings us around in a wide circle and I let out an unbecoming squawk. Richie laughs, a tinkle of silver bells and Lew and I both laugh, too, before he kisses me like he hasn’t seen me in an age, and he kisses the baby, too.

His face is smooth, clean-shaven, and he smells like soap and like himself and it’s intoxicating. By the time we wind our way through the crowd and find a taxi, it’s very nearly evening. Lew holds the door open for me and I slide into the backseat. He leans in to give me our son and then he’s close beside me so I can settle under his arm. Once upon a time, we would have been all over each other, taxi driver be damned, even in broad daylight, but that can’t happen today. Someone needs to hold the baby, who is almost as charming as his father when he coos and smiles at us. So Lew and I have to settle for kissing and save the rest for later.

I don’t think any of us mind into traffic is in a snare and it takes an incredibly long time to get to the Plaza. It gives us a time and place to talk and cuddle, and it gives me a chance to look at him. He’s so handsome in his dress uniform, but I do wonder what he’ll look like in regular clothes. Actually, I wonder how he’ll look in anything other than brown or green. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him dressed in anything else.

A bellboy takes Lew’s bag as soon as we’re out of the car--he doesn’t have anything else with him--and then Lew guides me inside. His hand is on my back, his fingers trace reassuring little circles there. Richie is growing heavy in my arms, we couldn’t take his baby carriage earlier. Too many people and not enough space. When Lew scoops the baby out of my arms I’m glad on two counts. I love watching them together and now my hands are free and I can touch Lew.

My hands are on him through the elevator ride and down the hall, but nothing other than his side and his arm and the nape of his neck. Richie and I go into our room, the bellboy follows Lew into his. I’m impatient to have Lew to myself in private; Richie is the kind of fussy that borders on tiredness. He eats his bananas and falls asleep nursing. I wrap up his warm little body in a blanket and lower him into his crib. I’m still singing scraps of a half-remembered French lullaby as I tuck him in. Then I wait.

Lew’s across the hall, in his own just-for-show room making his phone calls. Tomorrow, all three of us will go to make introductions, but tonight is just for us.

He comes in--he had a key--his tumbler in hand to find me singing ‘It’s been a Long, Long Time.’ He leans against the doorframe, glass pressed to his lips, watching me in the mirror. He growls at me that it has, indeed, been a long time, and then he crosses the room in a few long strides. I’d had time to undo my hair, put my shoes away, and hang up my suit jacket, but I’m mostly still properly dressed. It doesn’t matter though. He falls on me anyway, and what ensues is quick but not perfunctory in the least.

After that, we put ourselves to rights quickly--and isn’t that something we’re used to after all the moments we’ve stolen together? Proper beds, privacy, and time were luxuries that were not always available. Lewis orders us room-service supper while I fix the bed. No need to provide extra fodder for gossip. That’s the entire reason we’ve got two separate rooms. People know who Lew and his family are and people do talk, I don’t want to make things any messier than they already are.

Our supper is a picnic on the floor, we feed each other little bites of food and there are champagne and strawberries for dessert. There’s also a tiny bouquet of lilies of the valley for me. A bouquet of garden flowers would almost look out of place in the ornate room, except for the white satin ribbon wrapped around the stems that saves them from being common.

Lew wants a bath, and who can blame him? We fill the bathtub with the hottest water we can stand since we don’t have to worry about it running out. Our limbs are all in a tangle under the water and it’s not long before we’re both flushed pink from the excess heat. I feel nothing but warm and loved settled in the V between his thighs with my back pressed to his front. It’s something we’ve done whenever we had the chance, now that I think about it. Lew always said we were conserving water by bathing together, I always said he had ulterior motives.

We wash, helping each other with the hard-to-reach spots, but it’s really only an excuse to put our hands on one another. There isn’t any teasing and our nakedness stays companionable, the way it sometimes does after you’ve been with someone awhile. By now, we’ve known each other for about two and a half years, although it seems much longer than that. But anyway, I climb out of the bathtub first and leave him to soak and finish up by himself.

I’m waiting for him when he comes out of the bathroom, all clean and pink and scrubbed. Really, he’s adorable when he gives me a double take and then a leer.

“Welcome home, soldier,” I purr, very much the cat who ate the canary. ’Cause there I am sprawled against the pillows on the big bed. I’m in Lew’s white t-shirt and his socks, pulled over my knees, and nothing else at all.  His throaty chuckle is neat whiskey in a crystal glass, rich like butterscotch and warm all the way down.

I play at looking down modestly into my lap and then I flash him, pulling the shirt up for a few bare seconds and then dropping it, so that it falls to pool between my thighs. Lew throws himself onto the bed, lying on his belly, one foot raised behind him.

“You look like a pin-up,” he tells me.

“So do you.” He does, too, with his chin propped up on his hand and his foot dangling over his bare ass. Our laughter is both genuine and tipsy--and I am nothing other than absolutely, ridiculously, absurdly happy.

“Norman Rockwell could paint us.”

“I don’t think we’re quite wholesome enough for that.”

“Are you kidding? This is classic Americana.” His grin is lascivious and full of promises. “Well, if he decided to delve into the subtly erotic maybe.”

“You’re naked, though.” And Lew naked is anything but subtle.

“Nothing that interesting is showing.”

My eyebrow arches and I make a show of eyeing his backside. “I think you might be mistaken there. It’s a very interesting view, very nice.”

“ _Nice_?” His lips when he pouts are completely irresistible.

“The grading criteria are subjective.” I put a finger to my chin. “But given that it’s your ass and I kind of love you, I am rather partial to it.”

“Thanks,” he answers dryly. “But I’d rather look at you.” I lift the shirt to give him another peek but I keep my face innocent. He reaches to touch me and I swat his hand away and shake my head. Lew whines from far back in his throat and this time I stretch the V neck to show him my peaky nipple. He tweaks it before I can stop him and then the other one, too.

Lew puts a kiss behind my knee and my heart melts when he turns his face up to me. He pulls at my hips. “Hey, come here. C’mere Rissy.” His voice is just above a whisper and the timbre in it makes me think that very good things are about to come. I’m not quite ready to give up the game though.

“Uh-uh, you come here.”

“I already came all the way across the goddamn ocean.”

“You can come a little farther then, can’t you?”

He growls at me and works his way up the inside of my thigh, leaving a trail of nips and kisses in his wake. He takes the hem of the shirt in his teeth, pushing it up and out of the way, and the he ducks his head under the shirt.

“Did you miss me, honey? It seems like you did. Maybe you missed me a little.” I can feel his lips quirk--I can’t answer him, not when that one finger is prodding just a hair too hard and he’s doing that with his tongue. The sound I make is not a scream only by the tiniest fraction.

“Darling, you can’t make a noise like that at the Plaza. It simply isn’t allowed.” He shuts me up with a kiss and I can taste myself on him.  His hand is between my legs again, where I’m already very tender and it very nearly hurts but that’s okay too, because I like it.

 “Rissy, there’s something I want to do to you. It might hurt a little bit, but-oh God…“--he must like what I’m doing to him--“B-but I think you might like it--“

I move, nosing into his pubic hair. “Where? Where are you going to hurt me?” I whisper. Lew’s fingers find their way between my legs and play there. It’s rough, but it feels good, too. “Okay, okay, you can do whatever you want.” Even as I say it, I can feel myself getting wetter in anticipation of whatever he’s about to do to me. He takes mouthful of his whiskey, but he kisses me before he swallows it so that I have to drink it straight from his mouth. “Ready?” I nod.

I sigh under him, and when he pulls away my hips arch up. I have an idea of what he might be about to do. It’s going to sting and I can’t wait.

The whiskey does sting deliciously and Lew leans forward to lap it up, like a kitten with milk, and everything is so tender, so sensitive, that I can’t keep quiet or still.

 “Go on, Rissy. Come, baby. Come for me. I wanna see.”

I give him what he wants.

 

* * *

 

 

Later, we’re still in the bed and I’m safe in the circle of his arms and utterly, sweetly exhausted, I whisper to him. “Welcome home, Lewis.”

“It’s funny,” he murmurs into my hair, “but here we are in a hotel, not my house, not my dad’s house, not _our_ house, but I feel like I’m home.” He leaves a kiss at my temple. “’Cause I’m here with you.”

“I love you.” It’s my turn to have my heart in my eyes.

“And I love you, too.” His hand is heavy and warm on my hip where he pats it, and we move, fitting ourselves together comfortably. I don’t have any dreams at all that night.

 

* * *

 

Now, I would have liked to tell you that the next morning started the same way the night before had ended. It would have been romantic to wake up in the pale morning light and lie in bed twined together. We could have made love again and gone down to eat breakfast all rosy and content.

The reality is somewhat different. Firstly, Richie wakes up screaming, my hair has run wild and not in a good way, and the morning light isn’t hazy and soft-focused, it’s glaring and over-bright. The day starts with Lew and me bleary-eyed and with poor Richie stuck with a diaper pin. I clean him up and sooth him, his crying tapers off and I feed him. he’s much happier after that, but my stomach is churning. We’ve a big day ahead of us. We are having lunch with Lew’s mother and dinner with his father.

Lunch is nearly fine but uncomfortable. It’s stiff and formal until Lew’s mother holds the baby. Her face softens and she says that Richie looks like Lew when he was a baby. Richie is being a very good baby, all smiles and reaching for her earrings with tiny fingers. Still, she does ask a few pointed questions and there are a few thinly veiled comments that smart. She isn’t warm, but I knew that already. Even so, lunch is less of an ordeal than I thought it would be.

Dinner is a different story. It’s also stiff and formal, but Richie doesn’t mollify Stanhope Nixon. Actually, Richie’s swept into the other room by a maid once his grandfather inspects him. At times, Lew’s father talks about him like he isn’t there and he’s dismissive of his son. That makes me bristle; Lew must be able to tell because he takes my hand under the table. There are more pointed questions, and it becomes abundantly clear that he sees me as a very common girl trying to trap a very wealthy man. I did come from a perfectly ordinary family, but my parents taught me to be polite, so I bite my tongue.

“She didn’t know about any of that when we met, Dad,” Lew says mildly, but his jaw is clenched. This is the truth. I was already half in love with him before I realized that Lew was part of a very different world than the one I grew up in. He never made it awkward for me, and he seemed to view it with a healthy dose of irony, although there were signs that he grew up privileged. He operated under a different set of rules, he had connections, but he wasn’t spoiled even when he was petulant.

The meal dragged on for five interminable courses. I’m plied with a lovely dinner wine and abundant good food and Lew’s hand is reassuring under the table, and that’s all that makes it tolerable. I know this situation isn’t ideal, but Lew and I _love_ each other, and that makes the difference. However, appearances are important. Thus the two hotel rooms, and the fact that we have both a house and an apartment later. Lew thinks it’s ridiculous. He doesn’t care what anyone says, but he does care that it matters to me. My reasons are different but the outcome is the same.

When dessert is done, it’s time to go. Stanhope stands and tells us we have a fine-looking boy, and that charming child is brought back to me. He’s asleep and clean. The maid handles him with more tenderness than his grandfather showed when she puts him in my arms.

I’ve never been more glad to climb into a car.

“That was a nightmare,” I tell Lew in the dark of the backseat.

“Are you sure you want to marry into all that?” It saddens me that he’s only half-joking.

“I know I want to marry you.”

“Then let the rest be damned.” Lew’s mouth covers mine and his hands are on me, driver be damned, too.

Oh, and by the way, when Hazel and hers met Lew, they _loved_ him.

 

* * *

 

 

One early June day, I find myself in a simply gorgeous dress and beautiful shoes. Beyond the doors, the people that love us are waiting, and Lew is waiting for me at the end of the aisle. The sun is about to set, and I’m alone. There’s no one to walk me down the aisle and no bridesmaid for me to follow. I’ve done this before, and this time I don’t need anyone to give me away because I already belong to Lew.

Still, something doesn’t feel quite right. Suddenly it dawns on me and I know what it is. I adored shoes before, I didn’t have many, but I loved pretty heels. Even after I was in Europe I wore them, until they wore out and finally became entirely impractical. Then I wore boots and cotton socks, saving my one pair of black pumps for only the most special occasions. Just before the organ starts to play and someone swings the heavy door open for me, I kick my pretty white heels off and leave them behind.

I walk towards him through the waning sunlight in my stocking feet.


	31. Quand J’étais Une Petite Fille

It’s completely black and nearly silent when I wake up, and I smile to myself in the dark and listen to Lew breathing beside me. It’s the very first time I’ve woken up since our wedding, it’ll be the first full day that I’ll be his wife. I’m giddy, and I’m _glad_ because I thought that I'd never feel that way again; I didn’t even think I was capable of it. My brand-new husband is asleep, curled around me. He’s so warm when he’s sleeping; warm, solid, familiar, reassuring.

 I was little more than a child when I married Johnny. Those first few weeks and months with him felt like a series of spend-the-nights. This is different. I might still be a girl, but I’m no longer a child. This is where I belong. It feels like coming home, not like playing house.

That's exactly it. I belong right here, nestled against Lew in the dark.

Yesterday, yesterday was for lack of a better word, magical--which is something else I'd thought I'd lost. Once upon a time, I was the kind of little girl who believed in mermaids and fairies; and the kind of young girl who wanted to believe in them later. Today, I could reach out and touch them, fly with them, swim with them. Tonight, I belong to the sea and the sky and the stars. And to Lewis, always to him.

There was a small stone chapel at dusk, candle-light, a late supper with champagne toasts and laughter with the people we love best and too many kisses to count. And then the almost new car, windows open to let in soft spring air. Someone tied tin cans to the bumper and they clattered behind us until Lew got irritated enough to cut them off and throw them away to the side of the road. There were fireflies everywhere around him, golden and blinking.

His sleeves were rolled up, and I watched his forearms and his hands on the steering wheel. His hands, his face, his body, they’re all more familiar to me than my own. After all, how often do we really look at ourselves? I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of looking at him or listening to him. Night falls, I can only see him in silhouette. Lew’s fingers tip my chin up. “There it is again, that rapt attention.”

We’re only spending one night in a lovely room at an even lovelier little resort; we’ll be going back to the city tomorrow. Lew led me through the lobby; his hand was on the small of my back. I was stifling my giggles; this is the first time we’ve stayed together that no one could look askance at us. I was laughing when we got to the landing and he pushed me into the corner, his own dirty liquid chuckles were warm and dark in my ear. We were there for several minutes, until someone else started coming up the stairs. It was only a bare few minutes later that we were safely alone behind a locked door.

His lips were swollen from kissing when he asked, “What do you want, Mrs. Nixon?”

My answer was the same one I gave him what seems like a very long time ago. “You,” I said simply. For once, it was me raising an eyebrow and him grinning back. I tried to look arch, but it devolved into a smile to answer his, my nose wrinkling and dimples showing.

“Do me a favor, Rissy, and don’t ever stop looking at me like that.” He was in front of the bed, and I walked right up to him so that he didn’t have anywhere to go.

“I think I can manage that.” With that, I pushed him down onto the bed and climbed on top of him. It was rather difficult as I was still in my wedding dress. It’s long and lacy, with a square neck short little puffed sleeves. I felt like a princess, except that I think princesses usually act with more restraint than I do. And I’m sure a princess would have kept her shoes on at her wedding. But, at any rate, Lew swore and struggled with the row of tiny buttons down my back and we made love. And then again later in the shower, but only after we started on the floor.

I’d bought lacy, silky little underthings to wear to bed, but I was too tired to be bothered to put them on. Which is how we ended up naked in the bed. We talked for a little bit, and I really couldn’t tell you a single thing either of us said, except that I must have said ‘I love you’ at least a half a dozen times and heard it back at least as many.

 

* * *

 

 

I wake up a lot during the night ever since I’ve been home, and usually it’s not good. I’m haunted in my sleep, there are always skeletal figures and bloody smiles, skin that’s too pale and waxy and eyes with dark shadows beneath them. Tonight, though, there’s none of that, I’m only happy to be freshly married, and Lew is right next to me. He is safe and healthy, and hard against my hip. I smile to myself and reach to touch him, turn to kiss his chest and belly. He sighs, still asleep, and slowly, slowly I slip farther down. I lick at him, just under the ridge, the way he likes just to see what he’ll do. He makes an approving sound and stirs, moving to lie on his back.

I kiss him, licking and sucking, feeling him grow hard in my mouth. I grip at his hips and then let my hands wander between his legs and across his muscled bottom. I can feel him tense and relax, making little sounds deep in his throat. His hands move and he says something that sounds like my name, but his voice is slurred from sleep and it’s hard to tell.

He makes a low humming sound and one of his hands comes down to cup the back of my head. It rests there heavily and then his fingers clench in my hair. I’ve tasted him, had his fluids on me and in me, but it’s never actually _happened_ in my mouth before; it always leads to something else. His hips buck and he makes sleepy moans. Then it’s done, I swallow, he sighs heavily, mumbles something I don’t understand.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Now I’m all worked up, and I want him, but I can’t wake him now. I open my legs a little and let my fingers wander until I throw my head back into my pillow, all the while trying to keep quiet. Lew moves, rolling onto his belly, throwing one of his legs over one of mine. He makes a sleepy, content noise and his arm finds me, too, heavy on my naked belly. His face is turned toward me and even though I can barely see him, I can find the tip of his nose and his mouth to leave kisses there.

In that space right before night turns to day, I fall peacefully asleep again, and I stay that way until late in the morning.

 

* * *

 

 

When I was a girl, we always got up early. We had to, there’s always work on a farm, it’s never-ending. Sleeping late was decadent, a treat, and I loved it on the rare occasions that I could. I still do. I revel in the mornings that I can sleep and sleep and sleep and then lie in bed for a while before I have to get up and be useful. And Lew? He’s a hard man to get out of bed. He likes his sleep, too. It’s late in the morning when I open my eyes and see him looking back at me. I nestle into his chest and his arm comes around me and I fall back asleep. It’s an hour later, judging by the sun, when I wake up for real.

Lew’s eyes are closed, but he’s also awake; I can tell. His darkly stubbled jaw is bristly under my lips when I leave a trail of tiny kisses there. The smile blooms across his face and he pulls me to him.

“Good morning, Mrs. Nixon.” His voice is scratchy from sleep.

“’Morning, Captain Nixon.” He kisses me soundly, leaning over me and ducking his head.

He speaks right in my ear, his voice still low and slightly hoarse, and I shiver at his breath. “I had a dream about you last night.”

“Did you?”

“Uh-huh.” He traces my collarbone.

“What did I do?” My fingers run up his arm.

“You did something very…untoward.” His mouth is at my neck, sucking gently, I’m almost purring.

“What if I told you…” I pause to bite my lip, making my eyes big and innocent, “that you weren’t dreaming?”

“I’d tell you to wake me up next time, kitten.” I give him a dark little laugh; my hand is on his naked ass. The muscles move under his skin when he rolls onto me. He settles between my thighs like he belongs there, we fit together nicely. A little frown crosses his face. “What did you do with the--?”

I look up at him and bite my lip again, and then lower my eyes modestly to peer up at him through my lashes. I lick my top lip and let out a small sigh.

“God, yeah, wake me up next time, will you?”

“Lew, darling?”

“Mmm?” his mouth is at my throat again; his hands are twined in my hair.

“You’re awake _now_.”

He growls and pulls at me, moving to sit up, arms behind his head, and he watches. It’s better, listening to his sounds and his words. Eventually, his hands are on me, gently at first and then harder, his hips are rocking while I clutch at him. He lets out a loud groan and I swallow greedily. I kiss his cock, up his belly and chest to his mouth. He kisses me long and slow and deep.

“ _That’s_ the way to wake up.” He smirks and I tickle him, both of us rolling in the bed until we’re tangled in the sheets and it turns into something else.

It was a long damn time before we got out of bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Later, when it’s just starting to get dark again, we’re in the car, driving back to the city. We’ve got a week at the Hotel Astor, plans for a vacation somewhere warm with a white sand beach have been put off until the baby is a bit older.  The clock reads 7:00 pm and I smile. (My brain whispers 1900 and I try to ignore it. I don’t want to think of that today.) “It’s been a whole day. I’ve been yours a whole day. But then…”

“But then what?”

“I think I’ve been yours since I was born. I was just waiting for you to find me.” This is hokey, but it’s also true.

“Well, you’ve got me. And you’re stuck with me now.” He rubs my cheek, eyes still on the road.

I try to stifle a yawn and fail miserably. I settle crossways in my seat, drawing my knees up to my chest, leaving my shoes adrift on the floor. There’s a pleasant ache between my legs; he kind of soreness that isn’t pain at all. A reminder of muscles well-used and well-loved.

Twilight melts into a velvet-soft night and Tommy Dorsey’s ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ is drifting from the radio. It starts to rain, but it’s a soft, warm spring rain--no stinging, needle-like drops tonight--and it makes the lights all smeary through the window. It could be Paris again, instead of New York. We’ve got the Statue of Liberty instead of the Eiffel Tower, and St. Patrick’s Cathedral in place of Notre Dame, the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the Louvre. Home isn’t all that far from here, and Lew lived here, but we get to play for the next six days and nights, and that makes it different. And then I get to go home.

It’s a bit awkward, and a bit of a joke. Lew lives in our house, I have my own small but cozy apartment. It’s really all for appearance’s sake, I mean, we already have a baby, but there’s only so much other people will tolerate. Lew was right, we were forgiven one child, but heaven forbid that we live in the same space before we were married. Even if we are both at one place or another much more often than not. In fact, I think we moved almost as many of his things into the house before we left as we did mine. It will be lovely to have all of us together every day. _Home_.

We had our week of late nights and later mornings. Plays, movies, champagne, late suppers, elegant restaurants and grubby diners, dancing, kissing in taxicabs, and at the table or in the booth, and anywhere and everywhere. We went to museums and Lew showed me things he thought were beautiful, and we had a picnic in Central Park where the spring sunshine glinted off his hip flask. Lew read to me with my head resting in his lap. We swam in the hotel pool, floating and weightless, pinching each other under the water. It was over all too soon, and at the same time, not soon enough.

The Sunday after our wedding we came back home to Nixon, New Jersey. Our house was all lit up--we’ve had many homes since then, but that one holds a special place in my heart--friendly light was spilling from the windows. I could see it from down the street. I was perched in the car again, feet on the dashboard. I was wearing the blue dress Lew surprised me with on the other side of the globe, and it was rucked up over my bare legs. My shoes and stockings were stripped off--I’m glad I’m a girl and that I don’t have to wear a suit all the time--and tossed into the backseat behind me. Lew’s hand played across my thighs when he pulled into the driveway, steering with one hand.

“Wait a second,” he told me, and I did while he came around and opened my door. He scooped me up, and over his shoulders, and I laughed. He set me down on the porch only to pick me up again, this time properly, to carry me over the threshold and into our house.

“There are Lise and her James--which is how I always think of him--waiting for us with baby Richie. They’re married themselves now. They had a courthouse wedding with witnesses pulled from the street. James told Lise he couldn’t wait one more day; she told him she didn’t want to wait one more minute.

But I’m home, home, that is full of fresh flowers and sparkling clean, more champagne set out is a silver bucket with crystalline ice melting around it. There’s bread and cheese and fruit spread out on the table, the radio is on. There’s a flurry of hugs and kisses and hello’s. Lise winks at me and I swat back at her. My baby is asleep in his cradle, full little lips puckered and I want to kiss him but I don’t want to wake him either.

“We put your things away,” Lise whispers in my ear. “Did you have a good time, _ch_ _ère_?”

I nod at her. “It was perfect.”

“Do you think there will be another little Nixon soon?” Her laughing blue eyes sparkle.

“No,” I answer, shaking my head. It won’t be from lack of trying, though.

And Lise speaks into my ear and tells me something that makes me squeal and hug her close.

“Don’t tell anyone, though. It’s still early days.” I look at Lew, who already has his ubiquitous glass of Vat 69 beside him and a cigarette between his fingers. Lise sighs, “I suppose you may tell _him_ , but do not tell anyone else.”

“What are the two of you conspiring about?” from James. “They’re as bad as schoolgirls,” he says to Lew, who nods in agreement. That’s James, always complaining good-naturedly, as if he isn’t completely besotted with his wife.

“Oh, you wouldn’t have us any other way.” I turn and raise an eyebrow at Lise, asking a question in silence.

She shakes her head. “I wanted to wait until the pair of you came home. You should have seen him with your baby, Rissy.”

The four of us eat and we drink, little Richie sleeps and I go into the other room to peek at him three times. My arms ache to hold his chubby little body. Lew comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “I missed him,’ he whispers into the nape of my neck. I want so badly to tell him Lise’s delicious secret, but it seems wrong to tell him before James knows.

And finally, Lise and her James leave, but only after Lise cleans up. She shoos me out of the kitchen. The two of them left into the night. I wondered what James would do when Lise told him her news.

At long last, I ease my small son into my arms and lift him. He stirs but doesn’t wake, just molds himself to me. Lew turns off the lights behind us and follows us up the stairs, his hand at the small of my back again.

I put Richie in his bassinette in our bedroom for the last time that night. I couldn’t bear to be away from him any longer. I left kisses om his chubby baby cheeks and silky mouth. Lew cupped his son’s dark head and kissed his brow.

We got ready for bed, undressing, washing faces. I turned down the covers, Lew turned off the lamp and we climbed into our own big bed.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Lew.” And I giggle tiredly at my rhyme. I’ve said this more times than I can count and I always laugh, even if Lew does roll his eyes.

“Don’t you ever grow up the rest of the way, Rissy.”

He was beautiful in the clean, pure star-shine. He kissed me good-night and curled around my back. It was slow and sweet that night, tiny movements and Lew whispering love words and curses in my ear.

I was still awake afterwards when his breathing deepened and evened out.

Mermaids, fairies, magic? They’re real.


	32. Sleeping at Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry so smutty.
> 
> We're almost done, just a little bit left.

* * *

 

His leg is thrown over me when I wake up and one of his hands rests heavy on my shoulder. Our room, in our own house, is so quiet. Even little Richie, all dimples and chubby limbs now, is asleep in his own room. He’s only down the hall, but it seems so far away. Snow is falling outside the window, but it’s warm inside. Cozy. Sometimes when Lew is working and the baby is asleep, I sit on the floor with my back against the radiator and let the heat soak in. I remember when I used to feel like I’d never be warm enough again, when the cold seeped into my bones until it seemed like it was a part of me. Now we can shower every damn day, and there’s always clean clothes, a soft bed, and hot food. Lew kisses me good-bye in the morning and good-night before bed, every day. No more boots, no more OD’s, no more same stupid ugly dress every single day.

Moonlight paints the clean, unbroken snow blue and it’s reflected into our bedroom, turning it silver and blue and white. It’s comfortable here--deep rug, drawers full of new, clean clothes, big, soft bed with white cotton sheets and warm blankets and fluffed pillows. There’s a chair by the big window where I sit with our son. And downstairs! All the things that I took for granted before…That’s really all they are, just things. I had a stove and refrigerator in Chicago, too. Nothing so nice as what I have now, though. I don’t care about that at all; I’d live in a cardboard box with Lew. To be honest, I’d stay with him in a cold, muddy hole in the ground. And isn’t that the important thing, that we’re all here and we’re all crazy about each other? It’s like I found a piece of my seventeen-year-old heart; it’s ridiculous how smitten, how besotted, how enamored I am of my husband.

He’s sleeping like a child, on his belly, with his face pressed into his pillow. Sometimes he dreams and I wake him up, and he does the same for me. Right now, he’s calm, sleeping easily. I turn over to face him, but carefully so I don’t wake him by moving. His face is so close to mine I can feel him breathing. I love him so much, so much it’s a physical pain in my chest. Sometimes I can’t believe this is real; that we are here, together, at home and safe--that we even have a home that’s ours, his and mine and Richie’s. What he said the first night was true, we are together and neither one of us was playing. I’m happy, so happy. I am. Only, on nights like this one when it’s just too quiet, too still, I wonder how we’ll ever get back to normal, whatever normal is, whatever it can be now.

It’s too much to think about, and it makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me, so I just lie down and listen to Lew breathe. The father of my child, my husband. The man who I love more than I’ve ever loved anyone else. He looks so young when he’s sleeping. His hair and eyebrows are black against the white pillowcase, five o’clock shadow is dark on the cheek I can see. Suddenly, I want to touch him so much, to feel connected to another person. I almost never had a moment alone for ages, and I am a girl who needs her solitude, and now when I am alone it’s too empty. During the day, it’s fine; I have baby Richie and my neighbors and the girls I knew in Europe who write and call. And in the evenings and weekends I have Lew.

We were married in a tiny grey stone chapel at dusk. There were hardly any guests, but only because we wanted it that way. My dress was white and lacey, and my veil was ridiculously long. Yes, I probably should have been in a pearl-grey suit in city hall, but I suppose I’d been through enough to have the wedding I wanted. I had the prettiest shoes--that I kicked off right before I walked down the aisle. Lew was so handsome in his suit, the best thing I’d ever seen. He grinned to see my stockinged feet, that lopsided smirk that I’ve loved since the first time I saw it playing around his lips. That’s what I remember the most:  his smile and his eyes and the smell of lilies of the valley hanging in the warm spring air, flickering candlelight filling the chapel. We said our vows and exchanged our rings and he kissed me. For just a moment, the world was spinning around me and I was in a different church in front of another altar in the candlelight. Sometimes I think our real wedding was there, both of us in boots, his OD’s, my faded old dress. That was the night he made a promise to me without ever saying the words. Lew’s wedding kisses were still deep and bruising, and if they lasted a little bit too long, or honestly, a lot bit too long, neither one of us cared. Shameless of us, I know. Our recessional was Ode to Joy. He held my hand and we ran down the aisle just like we did before, only this time it was for real. And forever. This time, I didn’t have to watch him leave into the night. God willing, I won’t ever have to do that again.

His hair is soft under my fingers. I trace his eyebrows and eyelashes and the stubbled line of his jaw. “I love you. I love you so much,” I whisper in the dark. “I need you. So happy I have you.” He’s so warm and the pulse in his neck is strong and steady. He’s in his grey flannel pajamas, me in my white nightgown; we both look so respectable now. We’re married, he goes to work, I stay home with our baby and make dinner and do laundry. The girl comes to clean twice a week. No more kissing in alleys, no making desperate love under the starry night sky, no more sneaking into empty churches for us. Those days are behind us. I’m only remembering the sweetest part and I know it; there was so much ugliness, so much outright horror, but there were also good things. I’ve never had friends so close, danced so wildly, or laughed so hard. Just because I cried, because we all cried, oceans of tears doesn’t change that. I suppose you cram as much living in as you can when the future is so uncertain.

I outline his lips and lean to kiss him, still trying to be slow and careful so that I don’t wake him. My mouth just brushes his softly, a whisper of a kiss. But then he’s kissing me back, opening his mouth, sucking on my tongue. He wraps me up in his arms and rolls us over so I’m on my back. “I love you, too,” he tells me. “So, so much.” Our eyes meet and hold in the blue half-light and what I see calms me. There’s love and concern there, but no worry. He doesn’t have to anymore.

“Oh, did you hear me?”

“Yeah.” He turns toward the window. “It looks really cold out there.”

“I didn't mean to wake you.”

“It’s not a bad way to wake up, hearing you whisper that you love me. And you must mean it if you thought I was sleeping.” He’s lying on top of me and rubbing my shoulder through my nightgown. “Jesus, we’re wearing so many clothes.” His face is against my neck, I can feel the smirk next to my skin.

“Mm-hmm. I remember when you just slept in your shorts.”

“Rissy, I remember when you would sleep in nothing at all.”

A little giggle slips out of my mouth. “Lew, I remember when you wouldn’t even wait to take your clothes _off_.”

“We were outside, cute girl. And if I remember, you didn’t exactly seem to mind.” We’re both quiet for a minute and he props himself up on his elbow to look down at me. His weight is comforting, his body is solid and warm. “Did you have a dream? Was it bad?”

“No, I just woke up. Maybe it’s the snow. I don’t know.” I pause. “I was thinking of our wedding. And the other church. And how somehow there are things I almost miss? That it wasn’t all bad?” I turn my face away from him. “There must be something wrong with me.” I feel ridiculous complaining to him.

“No, baby,” he yawns. “It’s hard to…adjust. And it wasn’t all bad. I found you. You found me. It’ll just take time.” He leaves a kiss on my forehead. “It changed everyone. We’ll never be the way we would have been. But we, you and I, also wouldn’t be here, we wouldn’t have Richie.” Open mouthed kisses at my throat make me let my head fall back. “What if I make love to you, Rissy? Will that make it better?” More kisses, little nips at my neck. My back arches so I’m pressed into him. “Let me make you feel better, sweetheart. Let’s make love.” His hand brushes my breast, his mouth sucks at my collarbone, and I nod and cup the back of his head, holding him to me.

Lew fits his body between my thighs, pushing my nightgown up over my hips. His hands run up my legs and he pulls my panties off. He touches me with one hand, fingers slipping inside me, the other hand on my belly holding me still. “Feels so good,” I murmur.

“Sit up, baby,” he whispers, pulling me up and bringing my nightgown over my head. “Let me look at you, Rissa. So pretty.” He cups my breasts, drawing his fingers across my nipples. They tighten under his fingertips and I sigh, letting my legs fall open. He likes this, when I’m naked in front of him and he’s dressed; I love giving him what he wants. I watch his face while he touches me, caressing and pinching my nipples until I feel wetness pooling between my legs. I can see him, straining against his pajama bottoms, and I brush my foot along the hard line of him. He shuts his eyes and groans, but tells me to not to move before suckling me, drawing my aching nipple between his lips, his teeth. His tongue rasps across it, pushing it this way and that, and it’s all I can do to remain still. I’m coiled so tight, I can’t stand it.

“Please, please, please, I need you,” it comes out as a sob.

“Where, baby, where do you need me?” I lead his hand between my thighs to where I’m empty and wanting. Fingers wander up and down my seam, pushing into my folds, but avoiding the small, taut knot that desperately longs to be touched. “You want me so much,” he whispers, “You’re so wet for me…”

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, “for you.” Trying so hard to quiet my hips. I don't want him to stop.

He dips his fingers into his mouth, then back inside me, then to my lips so I can taste myself on his fingers. “It’s good, isn’t it?” One finger slowly, deliberately caresses that bundle of nerves and I give him a strangled cry as he pushes me gently back into my pillows. Then it’s his mouth, kissing, sucking, lapping at me until I can’t breathe, all the while his fingers moving inside. My thighs are wide open and trembling. Just before it can happen, Lew stops to look up at me, then dips his head to kiss the place that only exists to give me pleasure. “My sweet little whore…” Then another kiss, and another, soft, light; and then his one single finger is back, circling and pressing, until my hips buck into the empty air and I’m shuddering under his gaze. His head is pillowed on my thigh, his eyes are black, and his smirk is dark and dangerous. That one finger moves again, prodding where it’s so sensitive that even the lightest touch is almost to the point of pain.

Lew moves up in the bed so he’s beside me; he hovers over me while I pluck and tug at his pajama jacket, wanting to feel his bare skin. It comes off over his head with his undershirt and I sigh to see the muscles move under his skin. My hands slide over his chest, his ribs, through the trail of hair on his belly. He stands up to take down his pants and his shorts, but I clamber off the bed and kneel at his feet to do it for him instead. I’m between his knees, pushing his hips down so he sits on the edge of our bed. He’s hard and thick and quivering when I leave wet kisses where his leg meets his body; and, oh, the sound he makes when I run my tongue just under the ridge, just where he likes it.  His hands skim over my neck and my shoulders before they twine in my hair and he pulls me to him, but tenderly, so that I take him in my mouth, completely.

Now it’s me suckling him in long, slow passes while his hips rock and I move with him, drawing it out and letting my hands wander farther between his thighs, caressing, playing, before licking and sucking there, too, but gently so as not to hurt him. I press a finger into myself, gathering my own slippery wetness before I push that finger into his body. I can feel him groan above me from deep in his chest. Moving my mouth back to his cock, his bottom clenches as he his hands guide my head. We find a rhythm so we’re moving together; he’s musky, salty, delicious. God, I want him inside me. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, sweetheart…fuck,” he whispers. And then he lightly pushes me back, “Stop now, okay, stop, that’s enough now, stop. Just c’mere. C’mere.” His hands are shaking; even in the dark I can see that he’s flushed and the cords in his neck are standing out.

So, I give him a minute, climb over him slowly, straddling his hips but not touching. Kissing his mouth, jaw, his neck. His hands are at my breasts again, cupping, weighing. I can’t wait anymore. I hold him in my hand and sink down, letting him fill me, fill up all the empty places so I’m full of him. “You’re so warm,” I coo at him, which is true, he’s always warm, but I am, too. We both run hot; the places where we’re touching are scalding.

With one hand, I reach behind me to cup him, playing, the other hand between my own legs. I can feel him stiff inside me when I tease myself. His eyes are riveted there, hungry and black while I writhe on top of him. Lew pulls me down towards him, gripping me so tightly it hurts, so that my breasts are in his face. He kisses, suckles, nips until I'm panting, begging him for more, more, _more_.

He rolls us over, pulling my legs over his shoulders, kneeling between my thighs. Now he’s playing, his thumb right there, grinding in circles, the other hand under my bottom exploring a little, and then he’s every place he can be. Muscles move under his skin, he’s slick with sweat, his head is bowed. We’re sliding against one another, my hips rising to meet his thrusts. I can't keep quiet. “Shh,” he hisses at me right before his hand claps over my mouth. My moans and cries are muffled so I don’t have to worry about being loud, he controls it for me, letting me make whatever noise I will.

He’s thrown in sharp relief; the moonlight has leeched all the color from him leaving him black and silver. He looks like ice and feels like a bonfire, blazing.

“Fuck, Rissy, can I? Want to so fucking bad.” His question comes in bursts, his hand still on my ass.

I nod at him, whisper “Only just please--”

“I’ll take care of you first,” he groans, “I'll take care of you.”

“Then you can put it wherever you want. Whatever you want, Lew.”

“Yeah, but do you want it there?”

“Uh-huh, want you there.” My face is crimson with that admission; I can't look at him so I turn my face, screw my eyes shut. “Want you there, need you there. Please. Please.” He’s groaning again, fingers fluttering, then lightly pinching and pulling until my hips are bucking; I'm helpless, boneless, convulsing around him.

“Oh, that was pretty,” his breathing is harsh, rapid, anticipatory, “did that feel as good as it looked?”

“Better,” I tell him. “It was better.” Nothing could possibly look as good as that felt.

“Okay, now?” I don't say anything but only lift my bottom up higher. I hate the feeling of him leaving me, leaving me empty of him, but then he’s lower, insistent but slow, being gentle, careful not to hurt me too much. Stretching, letting him in. He’s the only one who’s ever been there.

He moves in and out, controlled, rocking against me, tiny motions that leave me breathless, until a little mewl escapes my lips.

“Yeah?” He asks, that one damn eyebrow raised. It’s such an arch expression. I can’t help but to grin back.

“Yeah,” I breathe, “oh, yes.” Feeling so vulnerable, so open to him.

“You like this, Rissy.” It’s just a statement, a fact. He’s moving faster and I move with him, letting him fuck me. His fingers slide back into me, his thumb finding that one spot again, pressing deeply. My small bundle of nerves is still so tender even his gentle touching almost hurts, but only almost. “Come, baby, come. Again. I want to feel it when I'm in your ass.” He flicks and strokes and it feels so good, but not as good as his thrusts. “Tell me when, Rissa, tell me when you’re going to--”

“Now, now, right _now_ , Lew,” I sob because the release is so great and I shudder to feel the biting pinch he leaves there. His control is gone, he’s frantic, erratic, pushing into me at a feverish pace while I make wanton noises, my entire body moving with him. His neck is corded again, he clutches at me, fingers digging in. I'll have bruises tomorrow. Fingerprints left as a reminder. It’s only my name that falls from his lips when he pushes in one last final time. I can feel him throbbing, feel his fluids in me, before he slides back out even though my body tries to hold him inside.

He hovers over me, kisses all my sore and tender places, and suckles at my breasts gently then a little harder. Then he kisses my mouth, lying on me, there’s still heat but it’s soft, mellow, all the urgency gone out of it. My legs wrap around his waist, pressing me flush against his body, both of us tender, sated.

“Love you,” he murmurs between kisses, feeding on my mouth, languid, cupping my breast again. “Thank you. Better now?”

“Mmm,” I play at being noncommittal even though I wanted it as badly as he did--maybe even a little more so.

“I miss this,” he whispers, his warm hand on my breast, only covering it. He used to fall asleep that way sometimes, at my breasts, the most intimate thing I’ve ever done with anyone.

“There might be a little bit left for you, love,” I say, “and if not you can just pretend.” He puts his mouth to my nipple, greedy, hopeful, and there must be something left for him because he sighs contentedly and sucks harder. His arms are heavy around me, and we both relax, starting to drowse.

My hands tangle in his hair, soothing. “Love you so much. So glad I’m yours, yours.” I'm so tired; I know my words are slurring a little. I can feel the smile, his lips around my nipple, still working there sleepily, his hand on my belly, caressing the small curve there that's only going to grow.

“There’ll be more for you soon.”

“Uh-huh, sweetheart.” His dark head rests on my chest, his ear to my heart. “Maybe it’ll be a girl this time. A little girl who looks like you.” Who else would she look like, with two dark-eyed, dark-haired parents? Still, maybe she will have dimples and freckles under her eyes and on her shoulders. Or maybe she’ll smile with one side of her mouth, the way her father does.

 He moves to the other side, still searching, and I know I'm comforting him, the same way he just did me, letting me drown in surrender to him. There’s nothing to be afraid of now. He takes care of me and I take care of him. Lew nestles into me, murmuring, “Let’s not get dressed, let’s stay like this, like we used to.” Bare skin against bare skin we fall asleep, the way we did sometimes before, on the other side of the earth.

 

* * *

 

 

The baby was a girl. A beautiful dark-haired little girl, all smiles and sunshine and sarcasm rolled into one. Where her brother is placid, solid, reliable, and perennially cheerful, she’s all drama--a mix of everything from wide-eyed wonder to biting cynicism, ever-changing. They're both perfect in their own ways.

And Lew and me? I'd like to tell you we lived happily ever after, but real life never quite works out that way. His drinking got worse before it got better. He stopped being a pleasant drunk, becoming sullen instead of sparkling. Just once, he said something to me that left me speechless because it was so cruel--and that’s something he never was--it was pretty soon after that when he decided to stop drinking for real. As for me, I eventually dealt with my demons, but not before I did my own kind of damage to those I love. I suppose I made my own comments, or even worse, said nothing at all. Withdrew. But Lew was always there to pull me back, the same way I gave him water and aspirin, brushing the hair back from his forehead. And when he was sick, trembling, desperately craving his bottle, I sent our children away for the week, and fed him dry toast and sat with him, bathed him, held his hands, and only cried when he fell into a thin sleep.

After all, no one is the way they would have been, for better or for worse. We’d all been through hell and back and come out the other side worse for wear, if we came through at all.

The one thing that was always true is that there was love. And there are still alleys and starry night skies, even if we are older and less reckless now, sometimes we do forget that we’re supposed to be responsible, respectable adults.

I think he’ll always be the soldier with the smirk and the chocolate eyes to me, the same way I'll always be the girl in the church in front of the altar in the candlelight for him. We gave each other the very best of ourselves, everything we had, our bodies, our time, our love. It’s the way I’ll always see him and the way I hope he’ll always see me.

He still brings me lilies of the valley. We went back to Paris, more than once, actually, and the first time we walked in the night air, wandering aimlessly, he bought me chocolate. I ate my truffles under the Eiffel Tower. Our hotel, the same one we stayed at before, was still all clean white sheets and pristine porcelain bathrooms. If we ate lunch on our balcony, him in his shorts, me wrapped in only a sheet, if we didn't leave the room for two days, it’s because we’re still completely, ridiculously I love with each other.

We traveled everywhere. Everywhere. Places I'd never even thought of, places I didn’t know existed. But the best place he ever took me was somewhere we’d both been once before. A grey stone church at dusk, lit with tapers, empty but for the priest, who led us through our vows in the first place we never said them. And when I looked down, he was wearing his dusty old boots. So, we’re both sentimental. And me, when I realized what was happening, I kicked my shoes off, so I could be a barefoot bride one more time. He carried me out of the church, to the waiting cab, and made love to me on the white sheets and deep mattress, desperately, as if we still might be taken from one another at any moment.

When we got home, to our own house, I bought him a puppy, a belated wedding gift. He had her until she died. He loved that dog and she loved him right back. Scarlet was a bloodhound, solid and heavy-boned, and, thank goodness, gentle and tolerant. Our kids pulled on her ears and tried to ride her, Lew and I tried to stop them. She never growled at them, she’d only look at us with pleading brown doggy eyes. In the evening, Lew was always the one she went to; she’d rest her head on his knee and you could almost say she was smiling.

We were, we are, always happy together, even if we’re not always happy, even if it’s not always easy. We both carry our scars but we carry them together.

My love, my lover, my husband. I still watch him sleep. He still nuzzles my breasts and rests his head there. I still brush his hair back from his forehead. That hair is thinner and lighter now, but the smirk is still there, and his eyes are still melted chocolate.

What can I say? Since the first time I saw him, when he turned around in that café, I’ve loved him. And, you know, later, after years and children and travels and war, he told me he knew right then, too.


	33. The End

I would give him anything. I never could tell Lew 'no.' Except for now, when giving him what he wants would be killing him. I need to be careful here, neutral. No hard edge, but no tenderness either. He's prickly and easily hurt but he would find kisses and caresses irritating.

I keep it businesslike, matter-of-fact, when I clean up his messes, wiping bile off his chin, vomit off the floor. It's when I bathe him that he pulls me to him, right into the hot water. I let him do it without protest even though I’m completely dressed. Lew holds me tight, crushing me and not saying anything, reminding me of when he wouldn't say it, a time when neither one of let those three words cross our lips. When I take off my soaked clothes, his fingers find the secret little places, but he only wants comfort. I kiss his shoulders, neck, mouth, eyelids and fit myself against his body so we’re both warm under the waterline. I whisper that I love him but he only shakes his head. His eyes are closed. One crystalline tear comes from beneath his lashes and I wipe it away with my thumb. Neither one of us says anything and eventually the water grows cold.

I dry us off and kick our towels and discarded clothes into a pile, leaving them for later. I help him dress quickly; the air is chill and we’re both covered in gooseflesh. I don’t have any clothes in the guest room and I don’t want to leave him since he wants me, so I pull on one of his undershirts and a pair of his shorts before climbing into the bed beside him. I lie down on my back and he puts his head on my chest, so he can listen to my heart. After a long while, Lew’s breathing evens out and he falls into a thin sleep. It's only then that I can finally cry.

He’s so intelligent, witty, charming; he can be warm and tender and funny; he loves us, he takes care of us. He can be absurd and sarcastic, vibrantly alive and passionate and incredibly brave, but he’s also damaged. As are we all, I suppose. Still, I wouldn’t change one damn thing about him, other than his drinking, and that only because it hurts him. But I don’t judge him for it, the same way he never judged me when I withdrew from everyone or locked myself in the bathroom to sob. This needs to be his decision. It won’t work otherwise.

When he wakes up, he's prickly again, agitated and feverish to boot. I give him his water and aspirin, and wipe up the bile that comes later. I know him well enough to know he doesn't want me to leave, so I sit and read in bed, idly touching his hair or shoulder every so often, but not saying anything, just being a warm and loving presence. Later I move to the chair, staring out the guest room window at the trees outside. It's fall, they're a riot of color. Dust motes catch the late afternoon light. It’s so quiet without our children. I love them. I love him.

I won’t lie, I miss the days when we would drink wine straight from the bottle in bed, or when a night out ended in the kind of messy kisses that taste like whiskey and desire before drunken lovemaking. It was fun, dangerous. But more than anything else, I want him here with me. And it’s not fun for him anymore.

When he vomits, I change the sheets and finally take the laundry down to the washer.  He glowers at me when I come back. “So, tell me, Clarissa, did you ever clean up Johnny’s piss and vomit? Did you have to play nurse to him, too?” I’m facing the mirror watching his reflection. His face is accusatory, but his eyes are needy, pleading. That’s something I can understand. I’ve also pushed people away while desperately hoping they wouldn’t let me go. Lew never did, and I won’t let go of him, either.

“No,” I tell him, turning around. “No, but he didn’t light me up like a Christmas tree, either.”

“You’d have been better off with him, someone like him.” Lew shakes his head. “I don’t know why you stay with me. I’m bad for you.” It breaks my heart when he says things like this, I don’t know how anyone could _not_ love him. He’s flawed, but he’s perfect.

“I love you. That’s why--”

“I’m not good enough for you. Look what I make you do, what I put you through.”

“That’s not going to work,” I say flatly. “There’s nothing you can say that will make me not love you. I was lucky--so incredibly lucky--the day I met you. You gave me back my heart. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here with you because I want to be. I want you. I love you.”

“You’re here because once upon a time I fucked you in a field and knocked you up. You just never had the sense to leave me.”

“Yeah? That’s nice. Lovely.” I know what he’s trying to do and I’ll be damned if I let him do it. “Maybe I like the way you fuck me six ways to Sunday. You’re good at it. Maybe I like your cock so much I’ve just been putting up with the rest of you. For years now.” Then I grin at him widely, the very picture of impertinence. “It’s your magical penis. That’s all that’s keeping us together. Nothing stupid like love or anything.”

For a wonder, he actually laughs, and its genuine laughter. “You think I’m good at it?”

“You make me want to do things I’d never even thought of before I knew you. I didn’t know. You’re very talented, actually.”

“Hmm. And how many gentlemen have you taken to bed, darling, besides the ones you married?” The truth is only a very few, a couple of men that I slept with when I was lonely and scared and desperate and in the middle of a war. One died on D-Day, one was married--and he loved his wife, he’d felt so guilty later. They were good men, nice men, but I didn’t love either of them. Everyone looked for comfort, in some form or another, where they could find it. I’d already lost Johnny, I hadn’t found Lew yet. He doesn’t know any of this, the same way I don’t know, and don’t want to know, any particulars of his past.

“Didn’t we all have our indiscretions, though? I think you had a fair number more than me. Still, I’m not an angel.”

“You kind of are, though. Maybe your halo is just a little tarnished.” He bites his lip and looks out the window. “I was an ass earlier. Sorry.” It comes out quiet and terse.

“Don’t be. It’s what you do, taking care of the people love.”

“No, it’s what _you_ do, Rissy.” That speaks volumes. I grew up loved and cherished, comfortable. Johnny had loved me in the simple, sweet way of first loves. My girlhood was uncomplicated, and if we didn’t always have things, I always felt wanted, and wanted for my own sake. No one had wanted me to be anyone other than who I was. It was completely different for him--all the creature comforts, but they came with more expectations and obligations than I can imagine.

“I love you.” It’s not something I say to many people, but the people I do love hear it often.

I go to him, and pull his head to my chest, and he burrows there, his face in my breasts that hang freely under the undershirt I’m still wearing. “I forgot you’re naked under there,” he murmurs, before he pulls at the hem baring one breast and one soft pink nipple. He traces the areola, we watch the nipple pucker.

“Lew? Sweetheart, I don’t want to--”

“I don’t want to either. You’re just so soft and it feels nice. That’s all.” So, I let him take my nipple in his mouth, cradling his head while he suckles. His hand is between my breasts. There’s no pinching or nibbling, just gentle pressure of his lips, rasping of his tongue as he pushes my nipple this way and that inside his mouth. A red flush covers his face and he’s sweating, his hair curling on his forehead before I brush it back. He uncovers my other breast, moving there; he’s burning up. I’m just about to ask if he wants the doctor when he makes a choking sound and a sickly warmth covers my chest. Honestly, it’s disgusting and it smells, but what breaks my heart is the way he jerks back from me and turns away, curling into a tight ball. I know he’s embarrassed, humiliated. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood to stifle my groan. The t-shirt’s still clean so I pull it off and dip a corner in the water glass, using it to clean myself and dry my chest.

I lean over him to wipe his face with a clean damp edge of the shirt before dropping it off the side of the bed. His eyes are screwed tightly shut. I’m exhausted. “Hey, Lew, I’m cold. I’m just going to get under the covers with you.” He doesn’t respond, so I stretch out along his back, pressing my face to the nape of his neck and my breasts to his back, one arm at his side. I do not tell him that it’s okay, in fact I don’t do anything at all, but place a small kiss where his neck and shoulder meet before I fall asleep.

It’s completely black when I wake up. I feel clammy and over-warm; Lew’s clothes are soaked with sweat and he’s shaking. I can tell he’s awake. “Do you want me to call the doctor?” I whisper. “I can.”

He shakes his head in the dark. “I just want you.”

“Are you alright?”

“No,” he pauses, “but it’ll be okay.” He sniffs and I realize he’s crying, but I pretend not to notice. That’s not because I don’t care, in fact, it’s the opposite. He can keep a little dignity that way. He’s curled away from me, back curved and knees drawn to his chest. His breathing hitches, and still I don’t say anything, but I let my hands run gently over the familiar contours of his back and his ribs. Sometimes you don’t need words. After a long while, he rolls towards me. Lew’s eyes glitter in the dark. I can taste the salt on his temple, his stubble bristles against my palm.

“I’m hungry. Do you want some food?” I haven’t eaten in hours and my belly is empty.

“No. Yeah. I do.” His voice is hoarse.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.” I stop in our room for a nightgown and socks first, before padding down to the kitchen, make the toast, butter it, take the juice from the fridge. The refrigerator door is covered in crayon drawings. There are sweet pink and blue and purple scribbles--she’s such a girl already, our daughter, small though she is. I also love the crooked stick figures, labeled ‘daddy’, ‘mama’, ‘Richie’, and ‘Emma’ in wobbly letters of varying heights. He’s my favorite artist, this mostly unknown Lewis Richard Nixon, who has simply been Richie since the day he was born. His art graces mostly kitchen appliances, held up by magnets. Uncle Dick has several pieces in his own kitchen. My small son is fascinated that he shares names with two people that he openly adores; my daughter is filled with wonder at everything. They’re both so beautifully innocent and I wish they could stay that way. I wonder what Lew did with his childhood drawings. Mine had hung on the fridge door, too, and my daddy kept the ones he liked best, making them into a book. Lew had a different kind of childhood, though.

He had a different kind of everything, really. My parents loved me, my sister loved me, Johnny loved me; we weren’t well-off, but we were comfortable, financially, yes, but with each other, too. There was lots of good-natured teasing and affection and acceptance for who and what you were. If you messed up, did something wrong, whatever; you apologized, it was dealt with, and you moved on. Whereas Lew’s family was not that way at all, it was like there was a secret tally of every sin, every disappointment, and no one ever _said_ anything, which only made it worse. I’m sure his parents love him; it was just a different way of being. And Kathy--well, I’m biased, I know. ‘Cause, honestly, maybe it’s a little indecent, how much I love Lew. My perspective is different, too, of course. I was there, I saw things, saw the aftermath. I wouldn’t leave a man who was in the middle of that, probably no matter what he did.

I met Kathy once. She’d come here over some matter or another, needing to talk to Lew. I tried to keep Richie in the back of the house--Emma was still a twinkle in her daddy’s eye--but in the way all small children have, he squirted out of my grasp and ran down the hall on chubby legs that were very quick but still unsteady. He ran right into the backs of his father’s legs, clutching his daddy’s knees. His sunny little face was upturned, the grey eyes that came from who-knows-where were sparkling, and he’d yelled out “Da-da!” at the top of his tiny voice, demanding Lew’s attention unapologetically. I’d chased after him, but stopped short when I saw her. She was so put together, so elegant, not a hair out of place, pale cream suit, stockings, and heels. I felt like a child amongst the adults in my pink cotton dress, hair coming loose, and Lew’s socks pulled up my calves. Now, I do have closets full of lovely clothes, my own suits and gowns and stockings--but it was a Saturday at home. To be honest, after, well, everything, it’s kind of comforting to put on soft, girlish dresses, though I’d felt silly and gauche in comparison that afternoon.

“Listen, I’ll write you a check,” he’d said to her, bending to pick the baby up and hold him in one arm. When I stepped forward to take Richie back, I saw the faint sneer I was absolutely meant to see and the look she flashed to the man who’s my husband now. Dear God, I might look naïve, but that doesn’t mean I am. Richie was cradled at my hip when I said hello and smiled sweetly and made the polite inquiries one is supposed to make. The more disdainful she was, the more courteous I became, keeping my voice warm, just to the right side of saccharine. When my small son began to lose his patience, I made my excuses and told her how lovely it was to meet her, and she responded as one should, that it was so nice to meet me, too. I gave her my best company smile--the one we all use when we want someone to know we’re lying through our teeth--and dulcetly replied “Indeed.” Lew’s mouth quirked, which he didn’t bother to hide. I _can_ be soft and sweet and pliant, but that doesn’t mean I always _am_. Then I turned to leave the room, carrying the baby back to play, and Lew cupped my elbow, kissed me first on the top of my head then on my mouth and it was warm and sweet and completely inappropriate, and he kissed Richie’s dark head, too. I didn’t look back when we left the room.

I could hear her voice but not the words, but whatever she said was dripping with condescension.

Lew’s reply was clear. “She loves me. I’m actually happy. We’re happy.”

Whatever she said back was said in the sort of voice that’s couched in poison. I did catch the end, though. “Well, then, God help her. Although, I suppose she deserves you.”

“That’s the difference between the two of you. She doesn’t have a vindictive bone in her body. She doesn’t feel the need to _prove_ —Goddamn it, you know what? I don’t have to justify anything to you, but it wasn’t like that. I love her. I fell _in_ _love_ with her.”

Later, after her heels clicked down the hall and the front door shut a little harder than was necessary, I looked up to see Lew lounging in the doorway. Richie and I sat on the floor in a square of winter sunshine, his toys strewn all over the carpet.

“Rissa, that was the politest fuck-you I ever heard.” The corners of his eyes crinkled and he came to rub his stubble on my cheeks, kissing my neck. We fell onto the carpet and our son laughed and climbed over us. Later, Lew built a fire for us and we sat in front of it on the floor, the three of us eating sugar cookies and drinking hot chocolate. We told the baby about Santa Claus. I can still see his rosy little face, his mouth ringed with chocolate, a speck of whipped cream on his cheek.

Our mantle is filled with framed photographs. Some are new and some are old, some are studio portraits, put most are snapshots. Those faces and places looked down at us, lit up by the fire. My mom and dad and sister, Dick and Harry, Lise and her James. Even Johnny is there, forever young and handsome in his uniform. I found Lew with that photo in his hands once. He put it back down and turned to me. “I’m thankful to him,” he said. “He brought you to me.” I hid my face in Lew’s shoulder. I’m thankful, too. I would have been lost without Lew--without either of them, really.

Once Richie was in his crib that night, Lew made love to me in front of the fireplace. He looked like he was lit from within in the flickering light and he loved me until I was so overwhelmed with it I cried. We fell asleep on the couch, half out of our clothes all curled up together, me and Lew and a bottle of Vat 69.

But I’m wool-gathering, the fireplace is cold and empty, and the love of my life is waiting for me upstairs. Red splotches cover his face and he looks miserable, but one side of his mouth lifts when he sees me.

“Let’s eat and get you washed up.” We have a weird Spartan little picnic and he showers before we settle back in the bed. We talk in low voices for a bit, loving nonsense, and he takes my hand, kissing it. It seems almost normal for a while, but it’s only a temporary reprieve.

He’s thunderously angry in the morning. He wants a drink, just a little one, and why, why, _why,_ won’t I just give him what he wants? Doesn’t he take care of me? He rants and my nerves are stretched over-tight. It’s that tired old line that finally gets to me. “If you loved me, you’d--”

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. “Don’t. Just don’t. If you can doubt--” I interrupt myself. “You’re not angry at me. I’m just the only one here for you to yell at. And I’m not leaving you and I’m not going anywhere, but right now I need a minute.” I take a long bath and cry again, sobbing alone in the clawfoot tub and soaking until the water is cold and I’m shivering. When I’m dried off and dressed, I feel hollow and clean and ready for whatever comes next. When I go back to him I cover his face with kisses until he kisses back.

It takes four days until he’s pretty much normal. Four incredibly long days and nights, he’s irritable, angry, sick, sorry, and tired. The last night, I fell asleep curled away from him, our backs toward each other. When I wake up, he’s rubbing my back. The blotchiness is gone from his face, his eyes are clear, and he leans down to kiss me long and slow and deep.

“Like a Christmas tree?”

“Like a goddam Christmas tree,” I agree, making him laugh. The first Christmas we were together, there was no tree, no lights, no gifts. We didn’t even see each other. There was hardly even Christmas dinner, there _was_ plenty of which and bone-chilling cold. The only thing I’d had to open was a letter--that I still have, tied up in blue ribbon with all my other billets-doux from Lew and put away--just a few words, but words that meant everything. That was 1944, if you were lucky enough to get something good, you held on to it.

The next year was different, there was a tree for us in ’45, lit with candles, gifts for us and the baby. Tokens, mostly, but gifts nonetheless. Of course, we were still in Germany, but no one was shooting anyone, so there was that. We were safe and warm, inside that rented cottage. Fire in the fireplace and food in our bellies, and friends around the table, too. Of course, tiny little Richie was there, almost three months old by then.

By ’46, we were settled here. The tree was a huge balsam, all bubbler lights and tinsel and glass balls. Gifts were spread out underneath it. We sat in front of it on the floor on Christmas Eve and I almost couldn’t believe that it was a scant two years before that we’d been in war-torn Europe, freezing cold and apart. We ripped the paper off our gifts in the morning, the three of us made a giant mess out of the front room. Later that night, Lew and I laid under the tree and I watched the lights reflected on his face.

That first year, I got an envelope, and I’ve gotten one every year since. I always open it at the end of the day, always by myself, and it is always the best gift I get. I love my scrawled notes. They’re sometimes long and sometimes short; I’ve had lists of the best things that’ve happened in the past year, reasons why he loves me, quotes he think I’ll like, do-you-remember-when’s; it’s different every year. We never talk about them, they just appear on the entryway table. Our own little silent tradition.

But anyway, that first tree was lit with candles and it looked like hope, lighting up the first home we had together with warmth and love. Rebirth, joy, the tiny person we created together. Being whole and real, no longer the shell of a girl. That’s how he lights me up.

“I don’t know what in the world I ever did to deserve you,” he whispers between kisses, “but I’m goddamn glad I did it.”

“You’re you.” It’s that simple, and it’s the truth. “You’re everything I want.”

 

* * *

 

 

I think this is where I’ll leave you.

We’ll wrap a few ends up first. Dr. Watney got home to his wife, and we stayed friends, even though we only saw each other again a handful of times. We never talked about our one transgression--and that’s for the best. We were only looking for comfort, and to bring it up again would only have made thing awkward between him and me, and hurt his wife. Only the two of us ever knew, and for that I’m glad. I met Iris, and I like her. James Watney was a true and loyal friend, and a great physician. He was a pediatrician afterwards. He said he never wanted to treat an adult again and he never did. He said he liked the kids, and he must have, he and Iris had six of them.

Lise has been my closest friend practically since the day I met her and I think she will be all the days of my life. We see her and her James a few times a year, she writes good gossipy letters and she’ll call on the ‘phone once in a blue moon. They’re very happy with two beautiful boys--both with caustic tongues and they can swear in two languages. Lise and I still giggle like young girls together, and don’t we still tease one another about our husbands? She’s still in Paris, saying that if she stayed in France during the war, there is no way she’ll leave during peacetime. Her James, who will do anything to make her happy, cheerfully complains.

Of course, Lew and Dick were always friends. Some things never change, and those fire-forged friendships are one of them. Richie idolizes him. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever met a better man--save one or two. My own father comes to mind, and I bet you can guess who the other one is. I might be biased, though.

My friend Marion never came home. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Neither Dr. Watney, nor Lise or I were there; it was that same surgeon, the one who rolled his eyes at me so long ago, who tried desperately to save her. He took it very hard; as it turned out they had a love affair of their own. Her husband never knew. He kept the memory of his wife, the surgeon got all the trinkets and tokens she kept. There was no reason to hurt her husband, better to let him believe that Marion was a devoted and faithful wife.

I’ve told you already, but I’m happy to say it again. Lew and I, we talked and we read, and we traveled. I made him supper and baked him cakes. We went to diners and gourmet restaurants, to the theatre and dancing and to the movies. We played in the snow with our children, we took them to the beach. We went to sleep, woke up, made love--even sometimes the way we once did, fueled on need and desperation. We dealt with our demons, relegated them to dark corners where they stayed. In short, life.

I’d been so worried, coming home with baby Richie in tow, about what people would think. As it turned out, it didn’t matter at all. Lew and I were together all the rest of our days, and I think it was quite obvious to anyone who knew us for more than ten minutes that ours was a love story. It was a messy, complicated one, but still a love story. And eventually, I think everyone forgot Richie was born before I had a wedding band on my finger.

The hardest part for so many, I think, was adjusting back to normal life. Going to a job every day, taking a train, coming home, eating supper, going to bed, and doing it all again the next day. Not that anyone was ungrateful to be home, or would ever want to be back. But, well, things change a person. Years of adrenaline, stress, and desperation take a toll. So many things that were important before seem trivial.

Conversely, so many trivial things are precious. We can have all the butter, sugar, and flour we want. I don’t have to hoard my bobby pins. We’re safe, and that’s something I never gave a second thought to before.

You never find that sense of camaraderie again, that cohesiveness. I do miss that, and it took me a very long time to come to terms with it. It is a very strange thing to miss anything about such an awful time in one’s life, but there _were_ good things, and it is all right to miss them.

It was the fall of 1950 when Lew stopped drinking. Richie was six, in the first grade, Emma was three and a half. We took them to see Santa Claus in November, just after Thanksgiving. On Christmas that year, they got almost everything their little hearts desired, I got my letter, and Lew got one, too, the only one I ever wrote. I had a special piece of news that year, you see.

Late June, 1951, I was handed the very newest and smallest Nixon for the last time. She was beautiful and her name was Joy. The minute they handed her to me, I knew my family was complete.

We didn’t live happily ever after because that just doesn’t happen outside of fairytales. But we lived and we loved each other, and I don’t think anyone can really ask for more than that.

♠

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my. That's it. if anyone read this whole thing, thank you!
> 
> The timeline did get really screwy, and it's so smutty I'm kind of embarrassed, but I hope it was at least smut with heart.


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